


All That Is Left

by MyPinkCactus



Series: After the Silence [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Elio's POV, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Paris (City), Sequel, movie canon, some novel canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-10-05 13:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 72,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus
Summary: It's the winter of 1998, Miss Indigo has just released their second album, and are about to get ready for a special promo concert in Paris in front of a very enthusiastic audience. However, despite critical praise and the true devotion of an ever growing fanbase, not everything is shiny and peachy in Elio's life.





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if I'd ever write this sequel, but, well, here we are! I hope you enjoy this ride as much as the first one!
> 
> If you haven't read [After The Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361662/chapters/40851773) you might need to before you venture into this new story.
> 
> I want to give infinite thanks to [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder) for all she's done for me; nobody has encouraged me and helped me more than her to take this story forward. Thanks for always being there, you're awesome! Seriously, read this [beautiful letter](https://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/post/187471692146/isitandwonder-paris-11101998-dear-elio-i) from a Miss Indigo fan she wrote! ♥
> 
> A little note: please, be **_patient_** with the firsts chapters, things are the way they are for a reason ;)


	2. One

Pretend.

There are people that master the art of pretending with such a degree of perfection that I could imagine the framed diploma that accredited them as Magna Cum Laude, hanging on the wall with assiduous care. They pretend and pretend. No shame, no guilt. The motivations are varied, although not always justified. They pretend not to worry or not to hurt. They pretend to disguise their stupidity or ignorance. But there are also sadists that pretend to deceive themselves because sometimes it’s easier to be part of a lie than to accept the ruthless reality.

If I had to include myself in any of these groups, it would surely be the latter. But there’s something important to take into consideration: I’m a bad liar. I was told often, _Fuck, Elio, you’re such a bad liar._ And lying is essential; a required feature. So pretending would mean an extra effort for an untrained brain (like mine) already saturated with information and poorly digested assumptions.

In conclusion: I didn't know how to pretend.

And it’s not because I didn't want to become an expert in the matter. It has nothing to do with false modesty; I’m just inept.

The fact that I don’t know how to pretend, however, doesn’t mean I can’t succumb to its charms. Surrendering to the less painful alternative is not the same thing as pretending.

It was Saturday, early in the morning; the weak rays of the cold dawn had barely managed to pierce the thick clouds that covered New York’s December sky. I could pretend to be asleep and spend the rest of the day entangled between the sheets. Why not? I didn't even need to lie; I was exhausted. But I didn't. I’d been feeling the pressure of his body (and his impatient extension), from my shoulders to where my back lost its name, for at least half an hour. His hands caressed my thighs and his lips brushed my neck tentatively. He clearly imagined I was awake, but didn't want to risk his suspicions.

Clever.

But I wasn't pretending.

The delight of his presence had managed to transform the vicinity of the bed (which for the moment was no more than a mattress lying on the floor) into a new ecosystem. Perhaps, beyond the edges of the comforter, waited a pristine dark winter's day, but here, under the warm covers, it was like a tropical paradise. That was the lush world he pretended to be in; I just agreed to play the game.

He slipped a hand into my underwear, allowing a finger to get lost between my buttocks. I buried my face into the pillow to suppress a giggle that would’ve sounded more like a treacherous moan.

"I know you're awake," he hummed into my hair.

Silence. Maybe I didn't know how to pretend, but I knew how to keep my eyes and mouth shut. At least until he closed his fingers around my cock—an early riser like the rest of my body, and whose insurgent attitude might be worth discussing later.

"I know you're awake," he repeated in a rough voice. His tongue drew a wet line behind my ear.

"No," I said; too pleading to engage in persuasive schemes.

But I was not trying to mislead anyone. I wasn't pretending, I was just adapting myself to the circumstances.

This was all I needed right now.

He took off my boxers, exposing me to the freezing morning air. I liked the contrast, it made the expectations of feeling his sticky and burning body pounding into mine even more exciting, like when you come back from a day in the mountains, knowing that at home waits a crackling fireplace and hot chocolate.

It was not the comfort of tenderness that I anticipated, though, and I was grateful that he didn't engage in foreplay. I lay on my stomach and spread my legs.

Here I am.

Take me.

As simple as that.

And he did. He entered me with careful determination, and when he’d made sure I was comfortable enough he fucked me without restraint.

I didn't want anything else.

No fake love. No fake advice. Not a fake friend.

I was done with that.

The search for princes and princesses had long ceased to appeal to me. Perhaps the gullible fantasies worked in songs because, after all, we’d all been stupid enough to chase them at some point. But in real life you could consider yourself lucky if you found someone who simply accepted that there was a part of ourselves that no one, without exception, is proud of.

That's what commitment was about. It wasn't about love; it was about an agreement of mutual respect. It was about loyalty.

I wasn't looking for anything else.

Physical contact; the satisfaction of feeling desired.

"I'm gonna come," he said, in an almost business-like voice.

I turned around in time to see him get rid of the condom, which he ditched from our paradisiacal island. I looked at him attentively for the first time since I had left the dream world. Even after months I was still overwhelmed by seeing him here. I let my fingers run the curves of his chest, stroking the soft curly hair. He smiled under the thick beard dotted with white, and closed his eyes with a drowned, controlled sigh when I grabbed his dick and started to jerk him off. He returned the favour immediately, and nothing but our laboured breaths were heard until the accumulated ecstasy exploded with the force of a thousand lightning bolts, erasing any remaining worry for a few delightful seconds.

I didn't need anything else.

"Happy Birthday," he whispered, wearied but composed.

It was a good way to start the morning; even if the exercise had undermined what little strength I had left. So I lay there, motionless, following him with my gaze as he left our messy haven, dodging boxes and suitcases, covering his nakedness with a bathrobe. He stopped by the door, looking at me with an expression that oscillated between tenderness and amusement.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice still hoarse, but I liked it.

"I think you mean _fucked_."

He found that very funny.

"Yeah, that too."

And he disappeared.

Bernard.

That name still weighed on my tongue. Sometimes I repeated it mentally, hunting for familiarity. Bernard. Bernard. Bernard. Bernard. But it always ended up sounding even more alien. There were times when I just called him "B" as my dear B. in Italy. He didn't find it strange because I hadn't gone into details about B. yet. The real B. was still a sad topic, and no one liked to hear sad stories when they were getting to know someone. The time would come; we all needed a period of adaptation: new lover, new apartment, new album, new schedule—too many new things to accommodate.

I joined him in the kitchen shortly afterwards, doing my best to protect myself from the cold in a robe too thin to be useful when the outside temperatures were freezing. Bernard didn’t seem to be disturbed by the Siberian weather; he whistled in tune with the melody spat out by the little radio in the corner of the counter as he moved around with ease.

"Smells good," I said, kissing him on the shoulder.

"This is just a small part of what I have planned for you today."

"Really? What else do you have planned for me today?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"I'm sure you'll like these."

I was sure I wouldn’t.

He was poaching some eggs; there were also tomatoes and bacon and some sauce. The Italian coffee pot steamed, filling the kitchen with an aroma that would bring anyone back to life, and from the toaster came the intense smell of roasted bread.

I could deal with this.

"Sometimes I think you just gave me that toaster for your own enjoyment," I joked, putting a piece of bacon in my mouth before he could stop me and sat on a stool with the sole mission of watching him cook.

"That's not true, but I don't trust your cooking skills."

"It's just a toaster.”

"And you almost set the apartment on fire the first time you used it."

"Excuse me, _sir_, I was used to an old one that needed ten minutes to toast a piece of bread just right."

"You still have a lot to learn."

"And you're going to teach me, aren't you?"

"Only if you let me."

"Depending on how condescending your behaviour is. At the moment you don't seem very worried."

"Why should I be?"

"Because of the event taking place today."

"Didn’t know your birthday was a cause for concern." He took out the hot bread and placed it on two plates.

"It's not just my birthday. Today our age gap has reached a round number. I could be your son. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Actually, technically, today we have shortened that age gap. So yesterday, I had more chances of being your father than I have today. But: first, it never crossed my mind to become a precocious dad. Twenty is for enjoyment, not for changing diapers. And second: you're thirty-three, Elio, you're a grown man who knows what he’s doing. Does it bother you?"

"No, if you keep fucking me like this morning."

Bernard laughed, but was quiet when the host on the radio uttered two familiar words. I stood up, ready to turn it off.

"No!" He protested. "I like the song."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"You never said it before."

"It's not like we talk about what you do that much…"

"It's a catchy song," I said, shrugging my shoulders to stop the conversation venturing into dangerous territory.

"Of course, you wrote it."

"I did."

Bernard glanced at me before removing the rest of the bacon from the frying pan.

"Tell me one thing, and be honest," I said. "Would you be here if it weren't for the _glamorous_ world surrounding me?"

"Have you ever let the _glamorous_ world surrounding you be part of our relationship?"

"Not… entirely."

"There's your answer. You're busy with your stuff and I'm busy with mine. I'm not interested in your fame, Elio."

"Come to Paris with me," I said, then.

"Oh, Elio, you know I can't adapt my schedule to some band tour," he replied calmly, all his attention focused on the food he carefully placed on the plates, each of its layers displayed in perfect symmetry and chromatic harmony.

"It's not a _band_ tour, it's just a small publicity drive. The concert will be in a week; the Dictator has only some interviews planned, and leaving aside the rehearsals, we have plenty of time to visit the city, and you're on vacation. Think about it: seven days to enjoy Paris in the middle of Christmas festivities." I approached him, putting my arms around his waist and whispering against the bathrobe’s fabric: "_Le Tour Eiffel, Montmartre, Notre Dame, Le Marais_…"

"Fuck, you have no idea how much I love hearing you speak French…"

"_Croissant, baguette—_"

"Stop,” he said, chuckling. “You’re distracting me."

"Think of a romantic boat ride on the Seine."

"I never took you for a romantic."

"That's what Paris does to me. And if all the clichés line-up on our side, maybe we can kiss when it snows."

"It's snowing right out there." He pointed at the window.

"As if it could compare."

"Look, it sounds great, seriously." He took the plates and placed them on the table with stupid rigorous precision, moving and turning them. When they were perfectly aligned he proceeded to do the exact same thing with the two cups of coffee. I just waited for the big _but_ that I could hear coming like the train announcing its arrival at a station. "I'd love to go, there's nothing I'd like more, but… I already have plans."

"Plans?"

"Yeah, since you were going to be away…"

"Can't you cancel them?"

He turned off the stove and left the dirty pots in the sink with a casual attitude that was starting to get on my nerves—the throat-clearing that followed left no doubt that what was to come was not going to please me at all.

"Listen, Elio, I've been trying to find the right time to tell you this."

"And I don’t know why I have the feeling that my birthday isn't."

"I think it is. This relationship means a lot to me, and I want to be honest with you. This is the perfect moment."

He asked me to sit down, which I initially refused. But in view of his palpable reticence, I ended up accepting. Perhaps it would be better to stay away from any object likely to be thrown. My instinct (the one that I usually ignored on a daily basis) told me that this situation had a lot of chances to end up in a scenario incompatible with reasoning—no one asked anyone to sit down to give them good news.

"I'm going to Aspen for the holidays."

He paused, I assumed to study my reaction; but Aspen didn't inspire any kind of sentiment. Overcrowded at Christmas; nice place, nonetheless. But I wasn't stupid, even though sometimes I behaved like I was. He was just knocking on the door and poking his head in to test the waters.

"I'm going to Aspen," he repeated, "with my kids… and my wife."

He paused again and leaned against the counter, dropping his arms as though to say: that's it; I've said it.

I chewed on his confession, which was not too complicated because I had to recognize the economization in his explanation. He was a marketing director, and it showed. Short and direct, with the precise terms that ensured that the message would hit home in its entirety and without the possibility of misinterpretation on my part.

Aspen. Kids. Wife.

Wife. Kids. Aspen.

Aspen. Discarded from the equation; it provided context but was only a place as could’ve been any other.

Kids. Relevant but not entirely important. I knew he had kids. Two. Paul and Andrew—twelve and eight years old respectively. Spending the holidays with his kids in Aspen was understandable and acceptable. So there was only subject number three left.

Wife. I was familiar with the existence of an _ex_-wife. Courtney. I didn't have an opinion on Courtney because it was better not to trust what a man had to say about a spouse he left. Everyone wants strong women until they dare to voice an opinion. So Courtney, the _ex_-wife, had been nothing more than background information to this day. Courtney, the wife, however, presented a serious problem.

"Wife?" I asked. "You told me you were divorced."

"No, no, no… I told you we were thinking about it, that—"

"No. You clearly told me you were divorced."

Bernard shook his head with controlled firmness. "Honestly, Elio, I think you misunderstood my words."

"I'm sure I didn't."

"Elio—"

"You gonna tell me I misunderstood you for a whole fucking year?"

In a predictable tactic to interrupt and redirect the discussion, Bernard let out a long, loud sigh.

"A friend recommended us to go to couple’s counselling. For the kids," he quickly added, because no one in their right mind would dare to blame parents that sacrifice themselves for their children.

"Good for you. But I wonder if you also think of them while you fuck someone who’s not their mom."

"That's unfair."

"Is it? You've been lying to me for a year. You've been lying to them for a year. Who even knows if I'm the only _other _in your life?"

"Of course you are! I didn't want you to worry; I didn't want to hurt any of you. That’s all."

"So, you admit to lying to me. All this time—all those meetings in San Francisco, Boston, Chicago… it was just you playing happy family with her?"

"No, it's not like that…"

"What did you say to her?"

"Elio, don’t do this, please."

"What was your alibi for spending these four days with me? Or am I the fool getting the excuses: Look at him, the poor bastard, he really thinks we're divorced."

"Elio, calm down, you're being irrational."

"Am I being irrational?"

"Listen." He stepped forward and tried to grab my hands. I avoided him. "I was just buying some time, okay? I'm not in love with her, what was between us is dead. I swear to you."

"Don't fucking swear."

"I understand you're upset, Elio." He went for my wrists this time. He failed again. "I like you, I like you a lot. I love spending time with you, and I like all this that we have."

I didn’t understand what he meant by "_all this that we have_" because apart from a few periodic (sexually satisfying) encounters and an apartment that had more packing boxes than furniture (and that I was paying for), it couldn’t be said that we had anything but an affair that, considering what had been said, was only unilaterally exclusive.

"I'm trying to find the best way to make this work for—"

"Jesus. Don't touch me!"

"Elio, please, I don't want to continue with this farce, really, but I need time."

Well, well, well, here we had a graduate in the Master class of Pretending with a full real name: Bernard Foster. Holding a BA honours degree in the three categories: those who think they do it out of compassion, those who do it to disguise the clumsiness of their arguments and those who really believe in their false promises and expectations.

I studied his hazel eyes. He knelt before me like a sinner ready to be punished. He looked regretful, suppliant. But who could assure me that this wasn’t another act? Should I listen to him and believe that there really was an opportunity to create something bigger between us than what we had right now? Should I believe that his intentions were noble and that all he sought was to cause as little pain to his family as possible?

"Elio—"

"Get out of my apartment."

His face morphed into a surprised grimace that accentuated the wrinkles on his forehead.

"Oh, come on, Elio… we can—"

"Get out of my apartment!"

There was no resentment or bitterness in my tone. I also knew how to be concise when I wanted a message not to be lost in translation, and here we both spoke the same language, even if he didn't want to understand a thing. There was tedium, though. I was tired of the world conspiring against me. It was a continuous give and take, and I had the feeling that destiny was taking more away than what it was giving me back.

Bernard remained still. I didn’t doubt his ability to create subversive slogans, but his aptitude as a receiver was questionable.

I leaned forward, stopping when my nose brushed the tip of his.

"Get _the fuck_ out of my apartment."

I didn't raise my voice, but at least this time my severity made him react—in his own way. He got up slowly, very, _very_, slowly, and tied the bathrobe, tightening the belt around his waist, making sure that each end was the same length, before leaving the kitchen. Uncle Sam’s _I Don't Ever Want to See You Again_ was playing on the radio.

How appropriate.

I thought about a lot of things during those long minutes: painting the apartment. The ingredients for the _Panettone_ that I had planned to prepare that evening. The flight to Paris. The luggage. Did I pack any books? Do I need to pack any books? I didn't need books; I could buy them there. I didn’t know what box the books were in anyway. I didn't even know if I would make it to Paris, the plane could disappear when I was half-way across the ocean. Who will take care of the giant cactus that Victoria had given me? Will it survive? I wasn't very good with plants; I was sure it'd do better without me. Was I really single again? I needed new underwear.

My back stiffened with tension when I heard his heavy footsteps in the hallway again, and in the blink of an eye, a slamming door buried those eleven months and all the temperance exercised during them. The plates and cups on the small table tinkled, as in an earthquake, and my whole body jerked with unexpected surprise. How dared he? My eyes landed on the toaster—a few seconds passed, and then I saw myself grabbing it and rushing to one of the balconies in the living room, just as Bernard walked out into the street.

If disaster, as a concept, had a sound, it would be something like this: pieces of plastic and metal crashing on the pavement. The toaster was gone. Thanks for the service.

Bernard turned around, frightened—as was I. I could have knocked him down. I could have killed him. _Man dies after being hit in the head with a toaster._ I didn't need the Dictator to yell at me over the phone to know this wasn't good press.

"What the hell! Are you crazy!?"

Yes, I was, wasn't it obvious? But I had a right to be, and I wasn't going to let this sudden remorse overshadow the real dilemma here. So I did the next best immature thing I could think of: I flipped him the finger and went back inside the apartment.

The adrenaline of such bravado lasted until the moment I entered the kitchen again. The toaster deserved better than this. So, still dressed in that ridiculous robe, I went down to the street to pick up what was left of it.

"Seems we are starting the Saturday on the wrong foot, aren’t we?"

That torn, trembling voice was Mrs Robinson's—she was standing there, with her huge glasses and one of those famous, quirky, colourful coats. I had only been officially settled here for two months, but I already felt as though I had known this woman since my childhood. She lived on the first floor, with her eye glued to the peephole. Nothing escaped her. But she was a lovely woman, known as the Grandmother of the building.

"You scared me for a second there, boy."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Robinson."

"Don't be, darling. I threw an iron at my late husband—it was hot. I'm sure you had good reason to do what you did." She nodded gently, as though we were sharing some sort of secret. Then she made the attempt to leave, but stopped and looked at me again. "I was smart enough to hit him, though."

I was aware that the woman had been a widow for quite a long time, but preferred not to let my wild imagination make any assumptions.

I offered the toaster a honourable farewell in a garbage bag used exclusively for its components. Dumpster. Goodbye. Time to move on.

After eating breakfast (mine and his—deliberately mixing it all on one plate until it looked like an expressionist painting, and rejoicing in the satisfaction of imagining the coronary he would suffer from seeing something like this), I got rid of the sheets and bathrobe. Then I decided to open some boxes, a task I abandoned shortly afterwards. I tried to sit at the piano, which always helped me relax, but the sound was flat and soulless. The piano being the only piece of furniture in the dreary living room didn't help either. So I went back to the kitchen, which was the only place in the apartment that really seemed lived in, and prepared the _Panettone_ just as Mafalda had taught me.

Oh, Mafalda.

I cried during the whole process.

I took a shower. I dressed as presentable as I could with the clothes that hadn't made it into the suitcases and toured the building, sharing the _Panettone_ with the neighbours as an apology for the morning hazard.

The phone started ringing intermittently at noon, but everyone gave up when the answering machine went off. Those who didn't settle for the evasive, but who also didn't bother to leave a message, tried again on my cell phone. Who would think these little monsters were a good idea? Towards the end of the day it crossed my mind to give them both the same ending as the toaster. I withstood.

It was dark outside when I sat down on the now bare mattress with what was left of the _Panettone_ and a bottle of champagne. Some time before midnight the phone rang again; this time there was a message after the beep: Victoria and Jameela, singing one of the most embarrassing versions of _Happy Birthday_ I had ever heard. They were already in Paris, it was around five in the morning over there, and it was evident that they were dead drunk. They made me laugh.

I heard the recording over and over again until the champagne made me lose count and consciousness.

Happy birthday to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to listen to **Miss Indigo's** new album go **[here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277781/chapters/48622610)**!


	3. Two

It wasn't the best restaurant in New York, it wasn't even the best in the East Village, but it was _our_ restaurant. Small, cosy, with a regular clientele that only looked up to recognize you with a nod "What's up?" and then went back to their own business. I liked that attitude, so typical of New Yorkers: the imperturbability regarding those around them. Nonetheless, I had sat down at the most secluded table, far from the hustle and bustle, far from the windows overlooking the street. Not that there was much to admire anyway: outside it was still a freezing, dusty winter's day while inside people groaned as they struggled to warm up.

I was tasting the second glass of wine when I finally saw him emerge amid those crowded at the bar unable to decide which table to choose. I got up immediately to greet him and before I could jokingly reprimand him for the delay we merged into a tight embrace. I didn't tell him how glad I was to see him, but I had missed him so much that it crossed my mind never to let him go. That thought saddened me. It was too late; I had missed my chance.

"I'm sorry I'm late, I've been running errands all morning. There are things that should be forbidden on Sunday," he said as we settled opposite each other. "I've called you but—"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I forgot my phone at home."

"Some things never change, huh?"

I couldn't look away from him while he took off all those pieces of clothing that protected him from frostbite. He looked good; tired, and his cheeks were red from the cold, but as handsome as ever—some might think I wasn’t totally unbiased, but this had nothing to do with objectivity but with facts easily ascertainable by anyone with eyes on their faces. His hair was longer than usual; definitely longer than the last time I had seen him, with the delicate curls softening his features, whirling at the top of his head.

My sweet Fabi.

"_Joyeux anniversaire_," he said without preamble, placing a paper bag on the table.

I looked at it, then I looked at him as though I didn't understand what this was all about, as though a gesture like this hadn't been normal between us since the very night we met in that dump bar and I ended up buying him a toy guitar to celebrate, at the top of our lungs, the Saddest Birthday in History after drinking all the reserves of beer.

"Come on, take a look." It was yearning impatience.

I put my hand in the bag and took out two perfectly wrapped packages. From the size and shape (and the sticker that sealed each of the wrappers) I could imagine what they were, but that didn't stop the child inside me jumping up and down with anticipation. The first was an antique book, without a jacket and bound within a discoloured blue cloth.

"When I saw it, I knew I had to buy it. They're Victorian scores," he explained as I turned the pages in awe. "It’s a bit worn and has some pencil notes, I suppose from its previous owner, but it’s perfectly legible. You have no idea how good they sound, Elio."

"You played them already?"

The question was redundant, unnecessary, insidious, but a way like any other to manifest the desolation that this simple statement provoked in me. Even these small rituals were a thing of the past now.

Instead of an answer, Fabi just pushed the other package in my direction. He had always proved to be way smarter than me; he had that perceptive ability to know how to read situations and guess when it was better not to scratch a still open wound. I unwrapped the second gift while the waiter took our orders (which consisted of the usual); it was a leather notebook.

"I know how restless you get on long flights; I thought you could use it to distract yourself writing something."

"You say restless not to say annoying, don't you?"

"I mean imaginative…"

We shared a knowing smile.

"Thank you so much for this, I love both. But you didn’t have to… that score book seems pretty expensive."

He played it down. Fabi was not a pretender, and in his case it wasn't because he wasn't good at it; he was just a person who didn't beat around the bush. Direct. Honest. He didn’t pretend, if anything, he dismissed matters that were, are and will be tricky. Let's not go there, not yet. That's what his eyes told me, thus setting to give way to the beginning of a conversation that under normal circumstances would’ve flowed naturally.

A year, a month and a day. That was the exact time that had passed since naturalness had become mere courtesy to us. There could be no spontaneity in a scheduled meeting. This was nothing like when I knocked on his window and snuck into his apartment without warning. Or like when sitting in my living room he would come up with some unexpected plan (usually quite stupid) and the only possible answer was: let me get dressed. Now good manners were the norm, the: _Sorry to bother you_ or _Are you busy, can I speak to you?_ Now there were agendas to consult or appointments (professional and personal) that complicated everything. Better leave it for another time. Now it was like a doctor's visit. Go. Check. Everything is okay. See you next time.

It was hard to assimilate. In fact, I was unable of assimilating. Only good intentions and years of unquestionable affection made the pain bearable. Still, moments of awkwardness became almost inevitable and the weight of reality fell on us like a bird shot down in mid-flight. Everything became consciously articulated, forcing us to look with haste and desperation for something to fill the noisy silence, which always ended with the two of us talking at the same time.

_How was your day?_

_How's school?_

Uncomfortable laughs.

_You go first._

_No, you go first._

This whole situation infuriated me.

I insisted that he speak first; I wanted to hear him talk, I wanted to know everything that was going on with his life, but above all, I wanted to make sure that everything was going well for him because Fabi didn't deserve anything but the best.

He told me that the school was running smoothly, that he had even refused new enrolments because he couldn't cope with more students alone and the idea of hiring another teacher was ruled out for the time being. But they had secured several slots, both for soloists and quartets, to participate in the Chicago International Music Competition. It was a demanding contest, but he relied on the talent of his students, and the succulent cash prize made it worth a try.

Like a metronome precisely measuring time, the food arrived just as Fabi finished telling me all the details.

"I'm glad to hear things are back to normal," I said, savouring the exquisite chicken soup. "I'd love to see you in Chicago."

"Yeah, that would be great, but I know you'll be busy… anyway; your turn. How was yesterday?"

I waited two well-tasted spoonfuls to answer.

"Well, nothing special, you know… my head is already in Paris."

"Are you nervous?"

"Yeah, I am, actually. Everything’s getting a little overwhelming for me right now. Nothing’s like the first time, not even the months in the recording studio, the freedom to work without pressure. Maybe it has to do with the lack of expectations when we settled in London? I don’t know. With the first album we were starting from scratch and there was nothing to lose if it all went wrong. Now everyone is waiting for something remarkable, and it's very difficult to work when you have all those executives breathing down your neck and questioning each and every one of your decisions. It's fucking stressful."

"I understand... but are you satisfied with the result?"

"Yes, yes, don't get me wrong. I've written the album I wanted, and I didn’t stop myself from telling them to fuck off at every possible chance." This made him laugh; he knew me well. "It's just that the whole process has been quite… different."

_I missed having you around_, that's what I meant.

Fabi had always been the first to hear the songs, even when they were just simple, messy chords. The first opinion had always been his.

"It's getting good reviews; very good, actually, I've read some of them," he said. "And a second album is very important to solidify an artist's career. I have no doubt that this will take you very far, Elio."

"Have you heard it?"

I didn't want the opinion of a handful of critics that were no more than sophists who undermined the legitimacy of emotions. I wanted his opinion.

"Not yet, I told you I wanted to hear it the night of the gig. Not to dismiss the recording process, I know how hard it is, but nothing compares to listening to a song live for the first time. I don’t want to lose that…"

He stopped, closed his eyes and breathed in. He had lowered his guard and his voice had betrayed him. He finished the last bite of his food and dabbed his mouth carefully with the napkin. I swallowed the third glass of wine.

"I've heard the single, though," he said then. "It's on the radio and MTV all the time. You're a real star, _mon ami_." He tried to joke, but the smile on his face showed an evident melancholy. "I love it, really, and I'm sure Sally would’ve loved it too. She'd be proud to see you dressed in full drag. I can hear her perfectly: that shade of red lipstick, Elio, fuck everything else, that's all that matters."

His impersonation was perfect, from the sharp voice to the embellished mannerisms, and that made us both laugh. How I loved to hear that sound, even if it had a bitter touch.

The waiter brought us the second courses.

"Don't you have the feeling that everything started to go wrong since that happened?" I asked, playing with the food; I was no longer hungry. "It was like bad news, after bad news, after bad news…"

Fabi remained silent, not that I was impatient to delve into everything that had led us here, but there was something disruptive that pushed me to press that key. His reluctance, however, was blatant. He nodded discreetly, as though he didn't want to make a judgment and overcommit himself to my conclusions. He took the bottle of wine and filled our two glasses before changing the subject.

"How's Benjamin?"

"Bernard."

"Yeah, Bernard, right. I'm sorry."

He wasn't, but I couldn't blame him.

Somehow I had feared this moment; I knew that insubstantial civility would lead us here sooner or later. Fabi didn't give a damn about Bernard, but asking about those close to us was a cordial obligation— that’s what the basic rules that run a mature conversation dictated and there was no choice but to accept them. So while he waited for an answer I tried to put together the right words that would allow us to cross this topic off the list as soon as possible. Next.

"There’s no Bernard."

This was not the way. Fabi's half-raised eyebrow confirmed it.

"We broke up." I clarified, as though that would improve anything.

Fabi seemed genuinely surprised. "What? When?"

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

His tone rose several octaves. This wasn't getting any better, and since it was obvious that there was no way out of the jam, I opted to tell him the truth: "Remember that ex-wife I told you about? Well, it turns out she wasn't his ex-wife; she’s still very much his wife. There was never a divorce and he's going to spend the holidays in Aspen with her and their children."

I emptied the fourth glass of wine in one go without losing sight of Fabi, who leaned against the back of his chair with a gesture that I knew very well. When I put the glass back on the table I felt dizzy.

"Don't say it," I asked—no, I begged him.

Fabi pursed his lips.

"Please don't say it."

He showed me the palms of his hands as though to say, _All right, I won't say anything_, and then put his elbows back on the table, staring at me.

He was dying to say it.

Fortunately, the waiter showed up to gather our plates. It took me some time to convince him that there was no problem with the sirloin steak I had barely touched.

_Are you sure?_

_Yes._

_I can bring you something else._

_No thanks, I'm fine, really, I'm just not very hungry._

I was about to change my mind and ask him to come back when I rested my eyes on Fabi again.

He was hurt.

Many wouldn’t understand why; after all, putting and end to our relationship had been his decision. But I did. Fabi’d had to leave everything behind: the tour around the States, Miss Indigo, me… to return to New York in a hurry after the sudden death of the teacher who had been taking care of his school. The official version attested that the distance and incompatibility of our agendas had simply made our relationship impossible to work. But reality hid a boyfriend (me) unable to understand that the world around him had its own plans. First Sally, then B., then my parents, then Fabi…

I had told him some horrible things I'd regret for the rest of my life.

Nothing had been decisive, though, everyone's nerves were frayed and Fabi simply thought that maybe it was better to give us some time, perhaps after the tour we could sit down, talk and everything would go back to its normal course. But I knew that the only conclusion he would draw during that time apart would be the reaffirmation that I wasn't good enough for him. So the mission of finding someone to fill that gap became a vital necessity.

Today I had only blurred memories of nights and dawns waking up next to unknown men and women, indistinctly or in the same pack. There were no names, they didn’t matter, the only important thing was my nonstop search that, although it satiated the desire, did nothing but enlarge the emotional void inside me. Bernard had offered some stability, at least, although the entire situation had only served to corroborate how lonely I was.

Fabi had accepted the news about me, rebuilding my life with the first idiot that had crossed my path, with admirable dignity. But yes, he’d been hurt to see me throw away those years in which we had shared so much together with astonishing ease, like swatting a fly. _Are you sure of what you're doing?_ That had been his only question, a question hiding many other questions. Fabi didn't trust Bernard or me. I said _yes_ with a rotundity that even today I didn't know where it had come from. He accepted it, but I knew from that moment, and without the need to verbalize it, that with him second chances were over.

I didn't hear from Fabi for weeks until tragedy, once again, brought us back together in B. There was something different about him, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it, and it wasn’t the right time to assault him with questions. I had simply appreciated his presence; it meant the world to all of us that he was there at that moment. I had wept the remaining tears before he headed back to the airport to tell him how much I missed him. _I miss you too; maybe we can meet for a drink someday_, he had said between sobs. That's how we got back in touch, but nothing was the same afterwards.

I tried to swallow the knot lodged in my throat. I could see on his face that he was thinking the same thing too.

"I hate this, Fabi, I hate it so much… and I don't know what to do to fix it." My voice trembled and tears quickly soaked my eyelashes. He wasn't doing better than me; I could see his Adam's apple bobbing with his own emotions. "These aren't us… and I know I'm the only one to blame for this situation. I know I fucked it all up, that I was an ungrateful bastard—I probably still am. I know I've lost the right to ask you for something else; I understand it, Fabi, and strangely enough I can deal with it. But I can't bear the thought of losing you as a friend. I just—I can't, I can't…"

Was I crying?

I was crying.

Fabi moved his chair and placed it next to mine. He held my hand while I kept telling him I was sorry.

"It’s all right, Elio. I'm here…"

He was crying too.

What a spectacle we were surely making of ourselves.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I couldn't stop repeating it over and over again.

"I know, Elio, I know. I know it was a hard time for you… I forgave you that same day, you know? But you said some awful things that hurt me a lot; it still hurts to remember them."

"I’d do anything to erase it all."

"There's not much we can do about it other than try to forget it. We need time, though; I know I need it. But we're on the right track, aren't we?"

We were.

I hugged him like it was going to be the last time.

"You okay?" I asked, erasing the wet paths the tears had traced on his cheeks when we found the courage to pull apart.

"Yeah… you okay?" I nodded, trying to memorize the feeling of his fingers on my face. "Good. Then let's call the waiter to bring us the dessert, the poor boy has been at the bar for about five minutes without knowing what to do with it."

I laughed louder than I should have. This was my Fabi.

The rest of the lunch passed pleasantly, as though the bad memories—or at least a part of them—were finally contained in the past. I told him about the incident with the toaster; Fabi couldn't believe what he was hearing and not because he didn't think me capable of performing such an over the top scene. _Did I warn you or didn't I warn you?_ He finally said. Yes, he had, many times. I had trusted Bernard, though. But it was already done and forgotten. That didn't stop us from laughing at the expense of his insufferable diligence. Now that I was thinking about it, it was hard to believe that I’d been able to endure it for almost a year. I imagined this was the way desperation had to adulterate the perception of things.

"I can't wait to hear the new songs," Fabi said when we were already outside, freezing in the icy air.

"I'm so happy you're coming to Paris."

"Me too… but take it as a favour because I want to ask you for something in return."

"Whatever you want."

"Call your mom."

Well, maybe not this.

Fabi didn't let me protest. "Elio, please, how long are you going to keep this up?"

"Do you talk to her?"

"From time to time, especially now that you refuse to answer her calls. I haven't talked to your father that much, but I know he’s okay, at least that’s what it seems from what she says."

His words had managed to soften my stubborn heart, but not enough.

"It seems like they’re still more civilized than I am."

I promised him that I’d think about it; Fabi didn’t look very convinced, but we said goodbye with another long hug and a hopeful: See you on Sunday.

I decided to walk to my apartment instead of taking a taxi. Confessions and tears had succeeded in undermining the impact of the wine on my mind, but now, under the optimistic effects of reconciliation, it felt as though alcohol was boiling in my veins. I strolled down a few blocks, until I came across the striking façade of a Latin bar. If there was a place where the chances of being recognized were remote at best it was this. The crazy rhythm of the music pumped from the loudspeakers with such force that the walls shook. There was hardly a soul sitting at the tables; the small dance floor was overcrowded with bodies wiggling and rubbing against each other without any kind of modesty. Dance steps that followed one another in perfect synchrony to the rhythm of the insatiable melody. At the bar, the dancers only stopped long enough to hydrate before getting lost in the turmoil again—it was hypnotic to look at, especially her. Dark eyes and long black hair, moistened by sweat around her oval face. She moved with the elegance of a snake, shaking her hips from side to side gracefully but determined. I couldn't stop looking and she'd been aware of it for some time now.

I was finishing my third beer when she approached me with irresistible confidence. There were no introductions, she just grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor. _This is _cumbia, she said in my ear with the sexiest accent I had ever heard while showing me some moves that should help me to follow her. I wasn't bad at it, but I had to admit that she was a good teacher. A _bachata_ and two _merengues_ later we were fucking like animals in the dark bathroom.

The poison exuded was not enough to detoxify my blood from the tequila shots we had ingested between songs, and hours later not even the sunglasses were able to protect me from the merciless attack of the dim but still impossibly blinding light from JFK's terminal one.

"You look awful."

I didn't bother to look at him now that I had finally managed to comfortably rest my head on the back of one of the soft seats in the business class waiting area without feeling nauseous. Around us, everything was quiet, the few people that accompanied us seemed busy with their own tasks and those who chatted did so discreetly. I heard him get up and walk away, but I didn't notice him coming back, which scared me when I heard his voice right above me.

"Drink this."

I had to take off my shades for a moment to focus on the bottle he was offering me.

Thomas "The Dictator" Burton. Reputed manager—at least that's how Maverick sold him to me when in the middle of the American tour they were forced to look for a replacement for Fabi. The idea had left me equally devastated, anguished and angry. We didn't need anyone to take Fabi's place, he’d come back, I was sure of it; this was something temporary. However, the label didn't want to risk it at a time like that, with tickets selling like doughnuts and with the American press so interested in everything related to Miss Indigo. Burton had worked with famous artists and was perfectly capable of dealing with the chaos of an up and coming band—a short and plump man, with extremely sweet features and breathing meekness. If it weren't for the red beard that covered his entire chin, he'd look younger than he really was. His appearance was harmless, his professionalism unquestionable, but I didn't like him. My behaviour was irrational, as was much of the attitude that I’d been showing lately, but I couldn't help but see him as a usurper.

"What's this?"

"It's an isotonic drink. Alcohol not only dehydrates you, it also causes an electrolyte imbalance," he said calmly, sitting back in the armchair he had been occupying opposite me, and recovering the papers he hadn’t stopped working on since we had met in the taxi.

"You're an expert, aren’t you?" I let the dark lenses block out the light again.

"This profession teaches you many things, and I've worked with musicians with worse habits than yours."

"I'm not sure I have any special _habits_."

"Alcohol, sex and the sporadic use of drugs to alleviate an obvious personal crisis," he said without looking up from the papers. "It's very common self-destructive behaviour when someone doesn’t know how to deal with certain problems."

"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine."

I didn't even try to sound convincing. Burton watched me for a few brief seconds before continuing what he was doing.

"I'm not your therapist, Elio, I'm not here to give you advice—suggestions, if anything, and in case you ask me, but I've already learned that that's quite improbable. My job is just to make sure that nothing you do in your private life affects your public image." Suddenly he looked at his watch, then out the big windows and shook his head vigorously. "We should have taken the plane last week as planned and not risk a snowstorm forcing us to stay grounded."

"It's not snowing, and I had things to do."

"I see… I'm going to cancel the morning interview."

"Why?"

"Elio, for God's sake, have you seen yourself? I'd rather argue tiredness than have to justify why you can't put a complete sentence together. Besides, the important event is the acoustic session and album signing in the afternoon, it’s preferable that you rest during those hours and present yourself to the fans and journalist looking like a living person and not like a damn zombie. Nobody will miss an interview on the radio; especially considering that on Wednesday the new Rolling Stone issue will come out—simultaneous release translated into French, Italian and Spanish. _That's_ good press. We’ll do fine. They are very happy with the article and the photo shoot—they sent me the cover; you look great, and they are fully convinced that it’ll be a good sale."

He said all that without pause and in a monochord tone that only varied for emphasis here and there, like a teacher whose routine has made him lose enthusiasm for his work.

It took my brain a few minutes of comforting silence to assimilate everything he’d said.

"I haven't seen the cover."

"Excuse me?"

"Why haven't I seen the cover?"

"It's just a cover, Elio."

"But it's me on there."

"Do you think I'd approve of anything that might harm you?"

"No, but I’d like to have a say."

This finally got Burton to put his papers aside.

"That's my job: to decide on these kinds of matters so that you can concentrate on more important things."

"The cover of one of the best-selling music magazines in the world is an important issue, in my book, and it's my face that's going to be printed all over it."

He stared at me, as though to make sure that behind the glasses there were really a pair of eyes looking back at him. He was starting to lose patience, I could tell, which was understandable; if I were in his place and someone questioned my work, I’d be mad too. But I wasn't him.

"Listen, Elio, I know it's been a complicated year and a half for you, but I'd like you to stop treating me like I'm the enemy. I want Miss Indigo to succeed as much as you do."

I laughed sardonically.

"That's impossible. Neither you nor the record company will ever understand the artist's concerns."

"Do you think so? Look, I admit I don't know how to play two chords in a row with a guitar, and with the Casiotone I can perform a pitiful version of Silent Night at best. But I've worked with a lot of musicians over the years and I know when someone has more airs than talent. You have talent, Elio, as well as other factors that play incredibly well in your favour, but you have to understand that this is a business, and _we_ are the ones that know what’s the best way to sell your product."

"I don't doubt your good work, I'm just asking you to consult me next time before making a decision. That's all."

He waited a few prudent seconds.

"All right, I will. Are you happy now?"

"Very much."

He sighed heavily and returned his attention to the papers. I smiled, knowing that he wasn’t looking. To rile him up had become a new pastime, even though in this case my annoyance was fully justified.

With rigorous punctuality, our flight was announced minutes later. My muscles weighed heavily and my stomach groaned when I got up, but despite the nerves I had confessed to Fabi that afternoon, I was eager to get onto this plane. I had hoped that this new area for Miss Indigo would also be a personal restart. I was willing to accept my mistakes and leave the bad moments behind once and for all. Burton stepped aside when we reached the boarding tunnel to let me through first.

"Here we go. _Bon voyage_."

I even thought I was ready to accept the presence of the Dictator, his tendency to panic when I ignored his guidelines and his lousy French. I took my seat looking through the window: it was so dark outside that it seemed like nothing else existed besides the lights of the airport, yet knowing that the light of a new day would be waiting for us in Paris was reassuring.


	4. Three

At some point in my sleep-deprived state, I felt the need to write an essay about the ugly habit of taking out one’s feelings, especially those related to anger and impatience, against doors: beaten, slammed and generally treated badly because of our inability to express disagreements in a non-violent manner. Someone had to take care of the doors. They were our sentinels night and day, safeguarding our privacy and physical integrity. They were always there, mediating between us and what we were running from. I knew it perfectly well because I’d been on the other side many times, counting the minutes until the threat (in its various intentions and forms) got tired of waiting and left me alone. You're too sassy, Elio, I was often told. I didn't think it had anything to do with shamelessness but rather with obstinacy and the inability to yield to anything that dared to infringe me in the boundaries of conservative thinking.

I thought of all this nonsense in a moment of deep relaxation and pleasant disconnection with everything around me—apparently I was deeper asleep than I had been aware of.

When I was able to locate the thudding sound that repeated itself with importunate frequency, I understood that I wasn’t really dreaming up some sort of spontaneous and very unreliable repetition of the incident with Bernard. The knocks were real, continuous, and accompanied by a voice that seemed to whisper my name at intervals that didn’t follow any pattern.

Panic and disorientation hit me when I opened my eyes. I wasn’t on a plane. Instead, there were sheets and a warm, heavy comforter, also fluffy pillows and a firm mattress that seemed ready to accommodate an orgy if the opportunity presented itself. I saw it all as in a slide show: suitcases, taxi, reception, corridor, green light, click, room, bed.

I sighed with relief. I was at the hotel; I was in Paris.

The knocking against the door didn’t stop, though, and now that I was awake, I could clearly hear a pleading _"Elioooooooooo."_ I crawled up there, bumping into bags and suitcases and all the furniture that had decided to come out to meet me. But I didn't have time to complain about the nuisance because as soon as I opened the door a dark silhouette leaped on me. I imagined that this is how gazelles felt in the Savannah, one second you were grazing and the next the claws of a lioness were clawing at your ass. Here, the lioness was Victoria, and her claws clung to my shoulders because my ass had landed with a thud onto the carpet.

We laughed hysterically like two kids, rolling on the floor.

“Did you hurt yourself?” She asked.

“I think I broke my tailbone.”

“Elio! Come on, come on!” She got up pulling my hand.

“I can't move.”

“Yes you can, come on, get up.”

“What time is it?”

“Five; we have an hour before the event and you know that if you aren’t at reception in thirty minutes Burton will come looking for you, and you don't want that, do you?”

No, I didn't, but although I would never give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, I was grateful that he had cancelled the morning interview. He’d been right, and surely I wouldn’t have been able to remember how many fingers I had on one hand.

“Come on, get in there," she said, pointing towards the bathroom. "Let me choose your clothes.”

“Don't you dare put your filthy hands in my suitcases, you obtuse straight woman.”

But Victoria was already opening them all.

“Oh, Elio, you, of all people, should understand that labels are only a formality. Love is free; it's never too late to try new things. But you already know that, don't you, naughty boy?”

I left her swimming in my clothes and took a shower that warmed my mood and my bones. Especially down there. The man reflected in the mirror looked relaxed, cheerful, free. Bernard? Who the hell was Bernard? Victoria asked about him, as expected, so I tried to explain the situation in the most condensed and succinct way I could. She was neither surprised nor outraged_. I'm glad, I didn't like him, for you_, she said and returned her attention to all the garments she had strewn all over the bed. I didn't like Bernard either, and as I realized that the situation became more and more appalling.

“You're an idiot, Elio, a real idiot. But I love you anyway.”

Then she asked me about the cactus she had given me. Before I’d left, I had given the keys to my apartment to Mrs Robinson, so I was sure it was in good hands.

“That funny-looking lady? She’s amazing. I'd like to be like her when I get older.”

“I suspect she killed her husband.”

“Really?” I nodded. “Oh, well—what about this shirt?”

Someone knocked on the door then, so I took advantage of the distraction to choose what to wear without her noticing and locked myself in the bathroom. When I came out, Victoria and Jameela were lying on the bed with their legs intertwined. I posed jokingly for them and after whistles and clapping signaled their approval, I approached to hug Jameela and made a place for myself between the two of them. I'd missed this: the anarchic routine that barely gave us time to think.

Jameela asked about Bernard too, as was also expected. Fortunately, Victoria saved me from the misery of having to repeat the same story again with a _The freak’s gone_. It couldn't have been summed up better. There were no more explanations to give; Bernard had been buried forever.

At reception were waiting for us Burton, Carson—who seemed to have had a rather interesting night but whose childish smile almost made everyone forget his clumsy attempts to repopulate the planet—and Davis, who didn’t seem to age despite the white streaks in his hair and part of his beard. Davis hugged me with the warm welcoming embrace expected between a father and a son who haven’t seen each other in a long time.

“This is my boy; this is my boy. I'm so happy to see you," he said.

The van that would take us to the Fnac on _Avenue des Ternes_ was waiting outside. There were things that even after four years were still hard for me to rationalize; staring at the emblematic building with its shop windows covered with Miss Indigo’s posters felt like something lavish and unreal. On the main façade, crowned by a slate dome, hung a huge canvas with the cover of the album and today’s date printed in large letters. The entrance was crowded with fans that went crazy as soon as we got out of the car. I heard my name among the screams as I was pushed into the building. A burly man, who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, stood in front of me, pulling away the arms that reached over the barriers, as though they needed to touch to confirm that the person they’d seen in photos and videos was flesh and blood. It was all so surreal that I also wondered about it sometimes, too, when I saw myself on the other side of the TV screen.

The organizers led us to the room where a quick press conference would take place. They started with the pictures, flashes and more flashes, first of myself and then (at my insistence) with Carson, Victoria and Jameela, who stepped aside as soon as the journalists began the interrogation.

_What were your influences?_

_What inspired you to write a song like _My Name is Sally_?_

_What do you want to tell us with its video-clip?_

_Do you talk about yourself in all your songs?_

And one of their favourites:

_Do you think you're a natural-born agitator, agent provocateur?_

From the corner of my eye I could see Burton restlessly playing with a ballpoint pen. He didn't like these situations that were beyond his control, and not because he was worried about the uncomfortable questions that slipped through from time to time, but because he feared the answers I could give. He could breathe easy today; I responded with the usual escalation of half-truths accompanied by some anecdote or joke that journalists were always grateful for—they were happy with the material obtained for their publications and we all left satisfied.

Minutes later we were taken to another area for a brief acoustic session that was going to be filmed. It would only be three songs and yet the room was packed. The enthusiasm and energy of the audience had an overwhelming effect that always caused me a mixture of anxiety, the one that frightens and drives you to run away, and an excitement that flooded my brain with a pleasant cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline.

When it came to such small places, I usually started with a brief introduction—a soliloquy that helped to calm everyone's nerves and create an intimate atmosphere. I had been asked more than once how I managed to achieve this bond with the fans, and I always answered the same thing: I treated them the way I’d like to be treated by those artists whom I admired so much.

What I experienced when I performed in front of them was impossible to describe, especially in a place like this, when they were so close. I could feel them, I could notice what the music and the words that came out of my mouth transmitted and provoked in them. It was like a conversation between us, as though we were sharing a secret. I confessed before them and they acknowledged with their heads, admitting between hums and excited glances that they too had been there. It was a mutual recognition through which we all realized that we weren’t alone.

But there was something disturbing me today, an energy that made me scan those faces in the crowd, looking for something—someone. I didn't know whom, but I couldn't help feeling that, among all these boys and girls, men and women, there was a pair of eyes watching me with a completely unexpected familiarity.

“What was that?”

The applause and cheers could still be heard as Burton intercepted me in one of the corridors.

“It was nothing.”

“What do you mean, it was nothing? Your voice totally broke in the second song, in a fifteen-minute acoustic session. What's going to happen on Sunday when you appear in front of more than a thousand people to play an hour and a half set?”

“We've been touring for three years nonstop; I know what it's like to play for a big crowd night after night, thank you. But we haven't played live in a year. We got here early this morning, I barely slept and I'm tired, okay?”

I turned to Davis, seeking some help. He’d always been on my side; he’d been a musician in the past, so he perfectly understood my concerns when it came to the political aspects of this industry and didn’t hesitate to mediate when business was put above music. I trusted him; we were a team. His expression, however, revealed that he shared the Dictator’s concern.

“It's all right, it's all right," he said, in that conciliatory tone of his, anyway. “Elio's right, he just needs to warm up, and that's what the rehearsals are for. We have five days before the concert.”

“We should’ve arrived last week as planned," Burton added.

There was silence. He was right and everyone knew it.

“I told you I had things to do,” I argued.

Burton looked at me coldly, which was unusual. You had things to do? Like staying locked up in your apartment, isolated from the whole world while drinking and fucking nonstop with a man who you considered your boyfriend but who in reality was nothing more than a stranger with a parallel life—a real and official life that you were not a part of, and who used you for no other purpose than to bring some excitement to the routine of his own monotonous and hypocritical existence?

I took a deep breath, waiting for the verbal blow, but of course none of this was said out loud. And objectively, it was more than possible that only a portion of these accusations were actually going through Burton's head; the rest were merely additions provided by my stressed mind. I guessed it was his professionalism that wisely determined that the best thing to do was to keep his mouth shut and not add more fuel to the fire. Victoria, Jameela and Carson were watching the scene from a safe distance.

“Let's just calm down, okay?” Davis stepped in. “Elio dealt with it well; he joked and made the audience—the _fans_, laugh. The place was jam-packed with people who _adore_ him. He was charming, as always, nobody will talk about anything else tomorrow, neither them nor the press. We have time until Sunday to get ready.”

“I'm just saying Maverick's not gonna like this.”

“Wait a minute there," Davis said, lifting a finger, which meant that his patience was reaching its limit. "Have you looked at the back cover of that album? Because the last time I did, there were _two_ logos. Dominos Records produced fifty percent of that record and this promotion and, correct me if I'm wrong, Burton, but I don't see anyone from Maverick around here. I make the decisions on this side of the pond, and if Wagner has a problem with it, you can tell him to get on a plane and come suck my dick.”

Yeah, no doubt, Davis was still on my team.

Burton said nothing; he only shook his head, accepting his momentary defeat. Deep down, I felt sorry for him. I didn't see malice when I looked into his eyes, he just did his job, but it was obvious who was paying his salary, and that wasn't me.

With the matter resolved for the moment, we headed to the album signing. It was the first time I had ever done something like this, and there was a frenzied and uncomfortable tingling in my stomach. I felt like a show monkey sitting behind the table, a buffoon exposed to the entertainment of others. There were no colourful lights or loud instruments here; no stage, no extravagant clothes, no makeup. Here there was no mask to hide behind or staging that would establish a prudent distance between the show and those who had come to enjoy it. Here, I was alone—the man—invaded by the insecurity of whether I’d really live up to their expectations.

But instead, I was met with their joy, their excitement and the nerves that made them waver, making them even more nervous; the tears that wouldn't let them spell their own names correctly, and the anxiety with which they blurted out everything they’d wanted to say to me; words that they had memorized in front of the mirror, but that now their minds refused to give back to them. I saw the T-shirts with Miss Indigo’s name, I saw the daring clothes and the glitter that I had become accustomed to wear on stage, and that these boys and girls had adopted as a gesture of courage and devotion that allowed them to shed their insecurities and show themselves as they truly felt.

I didn't consider myself a rebel, no matter how much the press insisted; I didn't think I deserved any of these compliments, from the serious to the most superficial. And yet, I couldn't stop smiling. I wanted each and every one of them to live this as something unique and personal. I asked them how they were and where they came from and they, surprised by the sincerity of the questions, threw themselves into a string of moving confessions. They told me about that concert in Toulouse or Dijon or Nantes for which they had spent all their savings and had driven for hours. Or the innumerable stores they had to go to in order to buy the first album. Or how little they had slept this night to be able to show up here as early as possible and secure a good spot inside. Or how eager they were to hear X song because it had helped them overcome a very difficult time in their lives.

At some point Burton came up to ask me just to scribble my name because otherwise we could spend the whole night here. I didn't listen to him. If there was anything really worthy about this whole promotional circus it was this; it was being able to talk to those who genuinely appreciated what I was doing.

I was saying goodbye to a tall, lanky boy that probably wasn't older than twenty, and whose hand I had to hold tightly because he couldn't stop shaking, when I saw him. He was leaning against a column at the far end. At first I thought that I was hallucinating, that it was just a sudden memory because he looked exactly the same like the last time we’d seen each other. But he was talking to a girl that seemed to ask him if he, too, was in the queue. He shook his head and ushered her to go ahead. She smiled and moved forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with one hand as she squeezed the album copy against her chest with the other, as though she feared that someone might snatch this opportunity from her.

He was smiling, too, but his was a pleased smile as he looked at her with tenderness. I wondered if he was thinking: don't be nervous, I know him and I know that under that over-confident appearance still hides the seventeen-year-old boy I met in Italy—shy and introverted, lost for words because of a superfluous massage to his shoulders or a look that he always avoided or directly misinterpreted. He likes to impress, but he exaggerates his flaws to the point of making them prevail over everything else. He’s human, believe me, I know; I know how grumpy he gets in the morning when he's not in the mood to go running or swimming, I know the way he brushes his teeth or applies the shower gel, careless and in a hurry, after a long bike ride, and also how he shaves the little hair that tries to colonize his chin. I know how his body feels when I hold him against mine and how he smells, that mixture of sweat, soap and summer, when we made love. I know how he moans when I'm inside him or the sounds he makes when he's inside me. There's no corner of his skin that my mouth doesn't know or hasn’t marked. Trust me, I know him very well because there was a time when I was him and he was me.

Actually, I doubted that he remembered any of this, so many years had passed already, even for me; it had taken me so long to erase his presence and scent from my memory. So much had happened since then that from that summer, apart from a handful of intimate anecdotes, some more vivid than others, there was barely a pile of blackened debris left.

I had to apologize to a girl with two big buns on each side of her head for the illegible signature that I had just scrawled on the pristine cover she had given me; she didn’t mind, she was hyperventilating as though I had just asked her to marry me.

“Can I give you a hug?” A boy asked me right after, his face stained with the glitter that the tears had dragged down his cheeks. I assumed that crying was a way like any other of externalizing the emotions that they weren’t able to control or show in a less astounded way. I got up and held him as tightly as I could over the table. He walked away crying even louder.

This was my reality now, and despite the awkwardness of some of these brief meetings, I didn't complain about it. It made me happy to make them happy and they made me happy with their happiness. It was an emotional bartering that managed to penetrate the deepest roots of the human soul.

When I sat down again, I looked back in his direction and smiled at him. I wanted him to know that I’d seen him even though it was obvious that he’d already noticed. He smiled back with a subtle nod, like a secret code between two spies who recognize each other but don’t want to raise suspicions; one was never cautious enough when it came to guess who could be watching.

Two hours later, I had lost count of the songs I had promised to play on Sunday, the hugs offered, the kisses on the cheeks and the photos taken, even after the organizer’s insistence on asking them to _please_ keep the cameras away and move faster. I had signed CDs, vinyl, posters, magazine clippings, paper napkins, guitars, plectrums and even a few bras. My wrist and fingers hurt, but by the time everything was over everyone seemed very satisfied, especially the store that had tripled its sales during the afternoon.

While they kept talking about numbers, I couldn't stop looking furtively over at the column against which he was still leaning. I was scared that if I got too distracted he might disappear without leaving a trace, making me wonder if I had really seen him or whether it had all just been in my head, which wouldn't have surprised me.

Davis and Burton were talking about the event’s positive and successful outcome, the rehearsals and the interview that had been cancelled that morning but that Burton had managed to postpone until Wednesday. Let them discuss these things; that's their job. I couldn't contain myself any longer and left them to their business to approach him. My heart was pounding, fearful that as I got closer his face would transform into that of someone else, someone who looked very much like him but when I saw him up close, all the features would be wrong: the wrong nose, the wrong eyes, the wrong lips… how could I have mistaken those lips? But he was as tall, as blond and as handsome as ever. It was impossible to confuse him because there was no one who could look like him. _Il cauboi_. _La muvi star_. Oliver.

“It's really you.”

Of all the things I could’ve said to him, this one, the most obvious, was probably what best embodied the naivety and bewilderment that was seizing me. Oliver smiled openly, his blue eyes filled with joy.

“Well, that depends on whether I am who you really think I am. I'm sure you've met a lot of people lately, Rock Star.”

“Shut up. I thought I saw you at the acoustic session.”

“I was there, yes. I managed to make space for myself at the back—not without fighting. Let me tell you, it's not easy to face such young, stubborn people.”

“Oh, I know them well. But I'm so sorry you had to listen to that, it was terrible.”

“What are you saying? It was not. You were amazing, Elio.”

I let everything sink in, the fact that he was really here and that we were having this relaxed and mundane conversation. I had told Bernard about kissing in the snow, emulating every single cliché that you'd associate with bad romantic films. But this was on another level on the scale of coincidences. What chance was there that the love of my adolescence, the man who had helped me discover myself, not once but twice, would appear right now, in this place and at this very moment?

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Oliver took Miss Indigo’s CD out of his coat pocket.

“I was hoping you'd sign this for me.”

“Why didn't you get in line like everybody else?” I said light-heartedly.

“I felt a bit embarrassed… and I don't think I fit the demographic profile of your audience.”

“There’s no demographic profile to listen to Miss Indigo.”

“All right, then I'll confess: it's a gift, for Sean, he's a big fan, and I'm not even joking: he _loves_ your music. Honestly, I don't know how this happened…”

He laughed, which made me laugh, which made him laugh.

“I see that the son has better taste than the father.”

“I'm not so sure about that, but I can say that the son has learned a lot from his father.”

“Whatever you say. Let me go get a pen.”

“No," he said quickly before I could turn around. “Actually… I was hoping that maybe you could sign it over coffee or a drink. If you're not busy, of course, with you it's hard to tell these days.”

His nervousness touched me.

“No, it's all right, I'm done here. Let me get rid of the Dictator and I'm all yours.” An unusual, sudden blush dyed Oliver's cheeks. “See you in the cafeteria?”

“Here?”

“Do you have any other plan?”

“No, but are you sure this is the best place?” He looked to his left; there were still fans reluctant to leave the building and who started to babble _Oh my Gods!_ the moment I laid my eyes on them.

“Maybe you're right… I think I remember there's a bar around the corner, we can go there.”

“Sounds good.”

“All right, give me ten minutes and I'll see you there. Don't get lost!”

“I won't!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277781/chapters/49134920) Miss Indigo's acoustic session.  
It took me some time to put this together so I hope you enjoy it! ♥


	5. Four

It turned out that the bar I remembered wasn't where it was supposed to be. I didn't want to panic, but I was panicking (a little). This couldn’t be happening, not now that we were meeting again. And I didn't have his number; I couldn't call him to ask him where he was, if he was lost. "Oh, I found this place that looks great, I'll wait for you here, you'll like it. They have Italian ice cream." What kind of lunatic would like to have ice cream in winter? Or worse, what if he had left, taking advantage of my wandering attention to escape because what he’d found was not what he’d hoped to find?

I glanced around in search of some possible answers; maybe he’d gone the wrong way? I was about to cross the street when someone grabbed my arm, stopping me abruptly and almost giving me a heart attack. Oliver emerged among the people who crowded the sidewalks despite the cold evening.

“Fucking hell, Oliver! Don't you ever do this again.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

“The Dictator has spent the last few weeks trying to convince me not to get so close to the fans: _Offer_ _them a hand and they'll take your whole arm_, he says. Then he kept repeating this name, Robert Dewey Hoskins, a psychopath who apparently chased Madonna all over California and once threatened to cut her throat from ear to ear.”

“That's horrifying… but are you at Madonna’s level of fame?”

“Did you come here to laugh at me?”

I was completely serious about it, but Oliver smiled with unquestionable affection.

“I’d never do that.”

“Don't lie. I haven't forgotten the rude looks during breakfast after you’d been especially nice to me the night before.”

“Will you ever stop holding a grudge against me for all that?”

“Maybe. Now, are you gonna give me a hug or what?”

“Depends, will one of those big men come and beat me up if I do?”

“I'm not Madonna, remember?”

It was me who got the ball rolling in the end, but I was stunned by the courteous conviction with which he took me in his arms. I let my nose rub against the softness of the scarf that protected his neck from the wet Parisian winter. He smelled so good, Oliver always smelled good; like softener and some expensive fragrance that I didn't remember but which I wouldn't mind familiarizing myself with.

“I'm so happy to see you," he said.

“Me too, me too.”

It was after nine, so we took a little walk and found the perfect bar to sit down to drink and eat something. The place was packed, but we sat at a table in a corner where nobody would annoy us.

“You look good," I said, not bothering to act with the prudence and diligence of the good businessman. We weren't here to trade, and formalities were a thing of the past. He was wearing dark jeans and an emerald-green wool sweater, looking casual but polished—he would look good even in a burlap bag; there was a sophistication within him that had nothing to do with clothes.

“You too; your hair is longer than the last time I saw you.”

It wasn't a question, in fact, he didn't even look at me when he said this, busy making sure that his coat hanging from the back of the chair was out of reach of being stepped on, which meant that he had already made the observations and now just gave his verdict.

“I was thinking about cutting it.”

“Don't do it, it looks good on you. In fact, I think all this suits you very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole famous musician thing; that rock star status that you seem to navigate through with quite a bit of ease.”

“Could you stop saying that?”

“It's the truth. I think you were born for this, Elio. I could already see it that summer, even when you sat all grumpy because you were asked to play for the evening guests. There was something that clicked inside you as soon as you caressed the keys with your fingers. Your posture and your attitude changed radically. You're a showman, whether you want to admit it or not.”

I was more struck by the fact that he could remember any of this than by his actual words.

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.”

We ordered our dinner, first something to nibble for both of us and then grilled chicken breast with chipotle sauce for me, and a fresh spinach salad for Oliver. I teased him about his choice until the waiter came back with our drinks.

“Stop laughing at me, will you?" He said. "I have reached an age where all excesses end up hanging over the belt.”

“Don't talk nonsense. I can guarantee, without fear of making a mistake and without even doing a prior study of all the men and women here, that you are the most attractive person sitting in this bar.”

Oliver shook his head, laughing with a shyness I wasn’t used to.

“Well, are you going to tell me what you're doing here?” I asked then. “And by _here_ I mean Paris, France, Europe in general. I doubt very much that you took a plane just to get a signed CD, am I wrong?”

“No, you're right, I didn't take a plane just to get a signed CD, but I did take a train to get a signed CD. I live in London now.”

Oliver seemed to find the helpless, stupefied expression on my face very funny; he laughed despite the discomfort I perceived in the way he pushed aside the two menus that the waiter had left.

“I had no idea. For how long?”

“I’ve been living permanently for a year and a half. I was offered a job at the Royal Holloway. I'm happy, I have a flexible schedule that allows me to write in my free time and of course explore the city in depth, which I'm enjoying quite a lot.”

“Wow, that's fantastic.”

I was hoping I wasn't sounding too fake; I hadn’t overlooked the fact that he had spoken in the first person, and the engines in my head were already working hard trying to figure out how to ask the next question, the one that really mattered, without sounding too intrusive.

“London is an important change,” I ventured. “Do the kids like it?”

Oliver sat up straight and almost jumped back in his seat as soon as he spotted the waiter approaching with our appetizer. I suspected that he was somehow relieved to be able to avoid the answer if only for a few measly seconds that he prolonged by carefully placing the napkin on his thighs when we had already been left alone.

“They like it when they come over, yes,” he said before pausing again. I was simply thinking: _Please, Oliver, don't make me inquire any deeper_. Then he added: "They're in New England… with their mother." A sigh. “We've divorced.”

There it was. The confession that I’d seen coming from a mile away and which didn’t surprise me so much by what it implied as by the way in which the revelation had come out of his mouth. It had been something almost casual, like someone talking about hobbies or the last film they’d watched. Not bad, but check it only if you don't have anything better to do. This provoked a hint of scepticism within me because I was certain that it hadn’t been Oliver's intention at all.

“I'm sorry,” I told him for lack of something better to say.

Oliver shrugged and grabbed one of the rolls and dipped it into the thick sun-dried tomato tapenade.

“Is it final? I mean, is it a divorce–divorce or something like: we've separated, but we're still making our minds up?”

The question was impossibly stupid and pathetic, but it was better to be naïve and make sure of what game we were playing here than to have to discuss possible misunderstandings later. I’d learned.

Oliver took it humorously, at least.

“It's a _divorce_–_divorce_, with papers and signatures and lawyers and all that. Charlotte's with someone else, actually—which is okay," he quickly added. “I'm happy for her, and he’s good with the kids and they seem to like him enough, which is the only thing really important to me. And things with Charlotte are fine, we're fine; the whole process has been very civilized and I think she's been very understanding and generous with me considering everything?”

He left the last words hanging there, as though inviting me to presuppose. Something I didn't dare to do; I was too imaginative and inventive for this to work.

“Should I ask?”

“Do you wanna know?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“You should try the sauce, it's very good.”

My eyes rested on the bowl with the red cream and the plate with the rolls as though it was the first time I saw them. Oliver cleared his throat just like actors do before coming on stage.

“Okay," he said, then he inhaled sharply and snorted. “The truth is; I don't know where to start.”

I tried to convince him that we could talk about something else if he preferred—after so long, I didn’t feel like having another meeting full of tension and annoying silences. Although deep down I was dying to know what had happened in his life over the past two years for him to end up so far from where we left each other. Oliver loved his family above everything else and it was hard to imagine him away from his kids. But he didn’t seem to mind and I, like a good nosy guy, didn't object.

“I believe that San Diego was the trigger for everything; although, it’s evident that the suspicions began much earlier.”

He took the beer bottle and gulped part of it in one long swallow. I watched him, confused. He didn't go into more detail so it was clear to me that by San Diego he meant the Street Scene Festival in 1996. Miss Indigo had managed to headline one of the three days of the event—it was our first major concert in the States, and in a moment of temporary insanity I had decided to send a couple of VIP passes for both him and his wife. A part of me had been convinced that they wouldn’t come; moreover, there had been a part of me that had wished they wouldn’t. At the time, I hadn’t known Charlotte and I also hadn’t known that other Oliver, the one who masked the man who let himself be seen when we were in an intimate and safe environment. I’d wished them a comfortable and anodyne life, free of surprises, so I hadn’t seen them capable of enjoying the whirlwind of a rock music festival. But I’d been wrong, which hadn’t been shocking either, and not only had they shown up there, but I had been amazed at how much I’d liked Charlotte; sweet and funny, easy to talk to. I even had come to understand why Oliver had chosen her.

What he was saying now, however, took me back to that weekend two years ago in search of a memory very different from the one I had. I tried to revisit the events, but the only images I could see clearly were those of excitement over Miss Indigo's successful performance. I’d been happy with Fabi then and I’d presumed Oliver to be happy with Charlotte. At least, the intertwined hands and the arms around hips and shoulders had been sending that message. Each one of us had lived in their own bubble, celebrating that weekend for different reasons, but all of them equally valid.

Oliver let out a small chuckle that left me a bit unsettled; he didn't seem to be having a good time.

“I speak of suspicions as if she’d been living with a criminal or something, but I can't think of any other way of expressing it. It's ironic, isn't it? You write books using complex metaphors and then you are lost for words when it comes to the simplest things in life. I guess, maybe it's because a part of me, like a useless delinquent, thought I was being more cunning than I really was. I thought I was playing the good and ideal husband card intelligently, but I was very wrong, Elio. I still can't understand what she noticed or saw in San Diego that made her start to worry, but it's evident that there was something that when you came to visit us in New England for Sophie's birthday confirmed her doubts. Don't ask me what," he said before I could open my mouth, but the truth was that I was speechless. "I’ve tried to revise this encounter over and over again in my head, I’ve checked the pictures we took, I have replayed the conversations we had. But everything seemed completely normal, even she herself invited you back for the presentation of the new book.” He shook his head. “She asked me questions, Elio, as soon as you went out the door, she began to ask me all these questions. At first it caught me so off-guard that I didn't know what to say. The first instinct drives you to deny everything: _‘What are you saying? You're crazy.’_ But she looked so hurt and disappointed… overwhelmed to discover that she really had no idea who the man with whom she’d been sharing her life for twelve years was. I had to confess everything, even what happened in New York.”

I wouldn't have felt anything in that instant even if a serial killer had slit my chest from top to bottom. There, the criminals' simile again. Maybe that's what we were, after all, two clandestine accomplices? Of course, New York would’ve been nothing that either of us would’ve been proud of. And I had wanted it. Oh, yes, I had wanted it as much as a child in a candy store infatuated by a chocolate bar. But our impulses are ephemeral; not so the remorse that follows them.

“Is that why she was acting so weird when we came back for the book presentation?” I asked.

Oliver nodded.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Oliver…” I covered my mouth with my hand, more out of shame than out of censorship. “Why didn't you warn me?”

“I thought about it, but I wasn't sure if you'd come to a small presentation of a children's book, and when you confirmed your attendance I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable?”

I was unable to look away from him, I didn't even move when the waiter came over to take the appetizer and leave the roasted chicken breast and his boring salad. Then, when we were left alone, he confessed that he had already received the Royal Holloway offer before the book’s presentation, but he hadn’t told anyone, not even Charlotte.

“I don't know why I set that weekend as the deadline for making a decision. Or maybe I do, but I'm too ashamed to admit it.”

I didn't dare ask him, I didn't even know what to ask. It felt like he was telling me something more profound than what his words were actually suggesting. But I felt too dazed, as though someone had just hit me on the head with a frying pan and I was on the verge of fainting.

“Tell me," I said, before I could think about it.

Oliver stared me in the eye. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“I don't know; I guess I was looking for something in you.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw a happy man… anyone with common sense would say that's enough. And of course it made me happy to see you happy, but it also made me sad because I envied you, which is a horrible thing to say, I know, but I longed to have what you had. That kind of visible, honest love. So I made a decision: I needed to get away. In the beginning we tried to make it work; we all considered moving to London, maybe a new country, a new life, would help us save our marriage, but the idea didn't come together. Nothing could be the same and it was absurd to keep fooling ourselves.”

I was out of words, it was as though his had acted as anaesthesia for mine.

“Sorry, have I gone too far?” He asked. “The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no… it's just… I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything." He mixed his salad and put a good portion to his mouth. “You should eat something or you'll end up drunk before dessert.”

He pointed with his chin to the bottle of beer that I was holding with one hand and that I had almost finished without even realizing it.

“Did it work for _you_?” I asked, looking at my intact dinner. “Moving to London, I mean.”

“Yes, it did—being away from the kids has been the hardest part of it all, but as I told you things are fine, I have a good relationship with Charlotte and Sean and Sophie love to come visit me. They'll arrive in two days, for the holidays. _Fuck_, I can't wait to see them.”

His eyes glowed in a very special way when he talked about Sean and Sophie. I smiled fondly.

“Okay, enough about me. Tell me about you: how's everything going? I didn't think I saw Fabi at the store.”

Despite being a harmless question, I felt a sudden chill, like when your body prepares for an imminent fever. So we were going to bring this up already, just like this, without any preparation or warm-ups. Maybe it was fair after what he’d just confessed, and perhaps it was better this way, like removing a band-aid, the faster the better.

“Fabi is in New York. We're not together anymore.”

Blunt and snappy—although saying it out loud had the same effect as waking up from a dream by the swipe of a cat: it was painful, disturbing, and took some time to assimilate. At least Oliver seemed genuinely affected by the news.

“I'm sorry to hear that," he said after a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There's not much to talk about: I was an idiot and I paid for it, plain and simple. But it's all relatively well between us, it wasn't one of those breakups where there are screams and flying objects.” I was still mourning the toaster. “We're still in touch. Yesterday we had lunch together, actually, and he's coming for Sunday's concert. Things aren't the way they used to be but we're working on it.”

There was a tense silence.

“It's a shame, and I mean it. He seemed like a nice guy, despite his insistence on calling me Mr America," he said then. That made me laugh, which served to relax the strange atmosphere that had seemed to drape over us. “Are you all right?”

His concern was so real that for an instant I felt the urge to cry. If you knew, Oliver, I wanted to tell him. Instead, I finished my beer and gestured for the waiter to serve us another round. Oliver perceived my evasiveness and seemed willing to change the subject when I finally said: “I've been better, I won't lie to you, but I guess I can't complain.”

The second round of beers arrived just in time.

“I’m sure this is not the meeting you expected…" Oliver said kindly as he tasted his drink.

“Bearing in mind that your appearance was totally unexpected, I can say that I had no expectations whatsoever. I'm just happy to be talking to you, honestly.”

“Let's try something easy then: how are your parents?”

I almost choked on the already cold chicken breast.

“Fucking hell, Oliver, you've really been out of touch all this time, huh?”

I tried to make it sound like a joke but the obvious horror that settled in the increasingly noticeable lines on his face told me that he hadn’t understood my tone at all; he even put a hand to his chest. It was clear that sarcasm was not one of my strong points either.

“It's nothing like that," I reassured him, which also made me feel relieved for some reason in spite of the resentment I still carried with me. “They're divorced too.”

His features relaxed for a second as he took in what I had told him, then morphed into pure bewilderment. Oliver didn’t give credit, like everyone else, no one understood it. Who the hell could understand it?

“What…?” That's all he said.

“Well, it's not a _divorce_–_divorce_, they haven't started any legal proceedings, for the moment at least, they just live apart: my father is in New York and my mother is here, in this very city—can we talk about something else?” I asked him before he found a way to dig deeper into this.

Now he looked dazed, but he accepted my request for a truce.

“God… the truth is: I don't know what's safe to talk about anymore.”

“Why don't you tell me about London?”

Yes, London seemed like an innocuous subject, so we embarked on a light conversation about his British life. He told me about his work at Royal Holloway, he was happy with what he was doing, with his salary and with his colleagues. He had already managed to establish a good relationship with some of them. He liked the city, even the weather was not a problem for him; it was relaxing, he said. He lived in Shepherd's Bush and I told him that it wasn't far from where we’d been staying during the recording of the first album. It wasn't bad, he added, although the worst part was the connection to the university; he lived a bit too far away, and although he didn't mind walking, he had to make too many _tube_ transfers.

I couldn’t help but make fun of him.

“How dare you, sir? You haven't even seen me drinking tea yet," he said in a fake but impressive British accent.

This was so much better.

Then he told me that he had made the decision to buy a second-hand car, very good price, but it had been torture to get used to driving on the left.

Moments later, we were interrupted by a young, auburn-haired guy. He asked me if I was Elio Perlman, to which I replied without evasion. His face lit up and his cheeks flushed—a frequent reaction, always shocking but still flattering. He asked me if I could sign something for him, which I gladly agreed to while he told me he had tickets for Sunday's show. I smiled, "I'll see you there, then." The boy, Marcel, walked away, muttering lots of _mercis_.

Not only did Oliver not mind the disruption, he seemed to find the whole thing very amusing and entertaining. Then we argued at length about who should pay the bill. Why don’t we share? I concluded. But he insisted that it had been his proposition and that he was therefore paying. You invite to the drinks, he said with determination before leaving me alone at the table. I wasn't sure if he’d said it accidentally or if he was really trying to mock my stubbornness from that first unfortunate meeting we’d had in New York six years ago. Whether by chance or not, I still remembered it as though it had happened yesterday.

I didn't realize how vicious the atmosphere inside the bar had been until we went outside. I filled my lungs as though the polluted air could purify my insides, but the cold night was mighty fine.

We took _Mac-Mahon_ Avenue until we reached the _Arc de Triomphe_ and then we continued down _Kléber_. The hotel where we were staying was in the opposite direction, but I didn't ask any questions, I followed Oliver as though I were a stranger in this city. It didn't take me long to complain about the lack of fun, though, we'd been walking for an hour (actually, it hadn't been more than five minutes) and we still hadn't found a single bar. Where was everybody? It’s Monday, Oliver said. Then he, who after four rounds of beers didn't seem to be much more lucid than I was, suggested going into every open bar we saw from that moment on and try the rarest drink they had to offer. Of course I agreed.

Luckily or unfortunately, we’d only found three by the time we got to _Place du Trocadéro_, but the last cocktail had been brutal.

“Are you alright?” Oliver jokingly asked.

“I don't think you're in a much better state to ask me that question.”

Oliver laughed out loud.

We walked a little further, and eventually stopped by some hotel's entrance whose façade resembled a ship’s prow.

“This is my hotel," he said, as though it hadn't already been obvious enough.

I tried to look surprised, but I remembered that I wasn't good at pretending, especially when I was relatively tipsy.

“Do you want me to call you a taxi?”

“What makes you think I wouldn't be able to do that myself, _Americano_?” I said, leaning against the wall in what tried to be a seductive gesture but also served me to keep my balance, as I looked him in the eye. Had he always been this tall? “The important question here is: do you really _want _to call me a taxi, Oliver?”

He glanced around, as though he needed to make sure there were no snoopers nearby, and then stepped forward, shortening the distance between us with confidence. I could feel his hot breath on my face, and it was the best feeling in the world.

“Would you like to come up?” His voice was low and carefully controlled.

What a question.

I went in first.

His room was on the top floor, I was surprised by its size, big enough to house a bed in which I was convinced that Oliver's unlimited height would have no trouble rolling around freely, and a couch by one of the two large windows facing the main street. I opened one of the French windows, the night was clear and a gentle breeze was blowing.

“Views of the _Tour Eiffel_. Oliver, you're a romantic.”

“It was a coincidence," he said, throwing his coat on the bed and approaching the desk that was on the wall opposite the couch.

“You know? I'm starting not to believe in coincidences—still, sometimes things happen that make you wonder…”

“I hope you don't give me an existentialist speech, I have enough of those in my daily life, and I don't think I'm drunk enough to bear it.”

“Then offer me something to drink.”

The options were cognac, rum, gin or champagne. We chose champagne.

“What are we celebrating?” He asked, handing me one glass and sitting next to me on the couch.

“Let us celebrate that we have survived this night and that, miraculously, we haven’t been hit by a car on our way here.”

“Sounds good, but I'm afraid the night isn't over yet.”

“You are right, and I have the slightest suspicion that you have already forgotten the real reason why you came looking for me.”

“It's true!” He jumped off the couch and searched in his wrinkled coat until he took out the CD, showing it to me triumphantly. “It survived, too!”

“Let's toast!”

We emptied the glasses and then he passed me a marker.

“Are you sure this is for Sean?”

He insisted that he wasn’t joking about any of this in an affected voice.

“You have something special, Elio," he said. "You amaze those who meet you, and my kids have been no exception. You made a good impression on both of them, I assure you, but mostly on Sean. After the second visit he kept asking me about you, he wanted to know everything. So I gave the album you sent me to him to listen to. He didn't do anything else for weeks. The truth is, I don't know how Charlotte's dealing with all this…”

“With him liking my music?” I asked, trying not to get distracted from what I was writing.

“With him having a bit of an obsession with you.”

“Does she hate me?”

“I don't think she hates you, none of this was your fault, but even I can understand that seeing your face stuck on the wall of her son's room has to be, at the very least, weird. Honestly, I don't even know how to take that he may have some crush on you.”

“Like father, like son.”

We laughed foolishly and I returned the CD to him, hoping that the dedication would make some sense tomorrow.

“This will make him very happy. Tell me, how can I thank you?”

“You can start by learning some French manners—it depends on each region, but we'll leave it at one kiss on each cheek, for the moment.”

There was not a single second of hesitation, Oliver moved closer until the knee he had pulled up onto the couch brushed against mine. His lips rested on my cheeks delicately but also with an implicit boldness. This Oliver was much more like the one I had met in Italy than the one I had seen that weekend in New York.

“Is this good?”

We were so close that I couldn't concentrate on anything but his eyes. He was staring at me; I wondered if he was also looking for the boy who had taken him to that secret place where he escaped to read.

“It could be better.”

“Show me, then.”

There was hardly any space between us left, but I managed to get even closer, letting my thigh rest on his, and kissed the corners of his lips. First one and then the other, lingering there just long enough to make it clear to him, without having to say it out loud, that I had the same determination as that first time at the small pond. We weren't in New York now, with all the doubts and frantic desperation for answers, we were back in _La Lombardia_, always resplendent in summer, with the sun, the grass and the occasional breeze that entered through the windows at sunset—memories that I scratched to recover in the mud because everything else had already been lost.

“Those weren't my cheeks…”

It was just a whisper, his lips brushing mine as he spoke, but I was tired of speaking. I put both palms on his face and kissed him on the mouth. At first, they were only tentative kisses, almost furtive, as though we needed to ratify what we were doing, aware of what we were getting ourselves into if we went further. But there was no vacillation; Oliver laid his hands on my hips, holding me firmly until I sat in his lap.

I thought I had, but I realized that I hadn’t forgotten that this was the feel of his lips, of his tongue, of his teeth. We kissed for as long as we could hold our breath, grinding against each other, exploring our bodies through our clothes until we lost the last crack of shame, if ever there was one, and undressed by the window, with the top of the Eiffel Tower spying on us in the distance.

In bed, there was hardly any room for preludes, as though we had suddenly realised that time had always played against us. We were naked, hard and more than ready. Oliver had travelled strangely prepared, with condoms and lube. I imagined that his new life in London had taught him to be prudent for what might happen. I knelt on all fours in the middle of the big mattress facing the bed’s headboard. There was neither vulnerability nor clumsiness. We both knew. And when he entered me, there was a moment of suspension and understanding, like a memory that presents itself with a vivacity that hits you and paralyzes you. For a moment our bodies seemed to want to take it easy, but lost the fight between my own fierce arousal and Oliver's urgent movements. We fucked like those who can see the end coming and are afraid of losing the little power they have left. Rough, deep, harsh, sobbing breaths, pure need and desire. At some point, in the wild mess of legs and hands and sweat, it occurred to me to think of the men Oliver would have been with after divorcing Charlotte. The thought didn’t disturb me in the slightest because someway I was convinced that in the sort time he’d been in Italy, he had spent more time with me than with all of them together.

After the catharsis that came and went, when our breaths were still struggling to fight off the effects of our orgasms, and before being defeated by exhaustion, I realized that we hadn’t exchanged a single word. Maybe we had absolutely nothing to say.


	6. Five

A piercing shiver woke me up. Then, as usual in these situations, the confusion slapped me with force, leaving me even more bewildered than I already was. My stomach was upset and my body hurt in unexpected places—which was a nuisance and a relief at the same time because it meant that, at least, I hadn’t dreamt what had happened. I was alone on the huge mattress, though, trapped in a jumble of sheets and pillows.

I shivered again.

I noticed that one of the French windows was ajar; on the other side of the glass the night moved on just as dark as the last time I had paid attention to it, but I was able to distinguish a silhouette and the red glow of a cigarette.

My knees felt like jelly as soon as I put my feet on the soft carpet. What the hell had we done? I rummaged through the clothes scattered everywhere—couch, coffee table, lamp—found my underwear and then put on the first thing that came to hand. His sweater. I knocked on the glass before I opened the window. Oliver was squeezed in the corner of the narrow balcony where there was barely room for the two of us, dressed in what looked like a bathrobe and covered in a blanket. He looked ridiculous, although probably no more than I did.

“Aren't you cold?” I said, wrapping my arms around my chest, trying to rekindle some warmth.

“Nah, I'm fine. Charlotte used to say I'm like a human stove. Did I wake you up?”

There was some lassitude in his voice, I tried not to give it too much thought; I too was exhausted. I shook my head.

“Smoking weed at this hour, professor?”

Oliver smiled shyly and didn’t protest when I took the joint from his fingers.

“Should you?” He asked. “Your voice seemed to be suffering a little today.”

“Wow… what about the: _You were great, Elio?_ Now that we've fucked, you can criticize me?”

“It wasn't criticism, just mere worry.”

Dejection in his words again.

“It was just a joke, Oliver,” I said, passing him the spliff.

His lips curled, but it couldn't be considered a smile, not even under the dim light of the Christmas garlands that decorated the street, forming a cover similar to that of the vines that entangle in the latticework to provide shade.

“Is everything alright?” I asked as I felt heartburn and tasted bile, not very sure if it was because of the effect of the joint or if my body was already anticipating his response.

But Oliver shook his head. _It's alright_, he said. He was lying, clearly. Then he added that he hadn’t been able to sleep and that he was sorry to have woken me up.

“Again, you didn't wake me up. What's wrong? And please, don't play games with me.”

“I'm not playing with you, Elio. It's nothing, really. Go back inside, you’re gonna get cold.”

“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's wrong. And let me warn you that if I suffer hypothermia and can't perform on Sunday, the Dictator will have a heart attack. No. First he'll look for you, cut off your balls and then he’ll have a heart attack.”

This, at least, made him laugh.

He was thinking about it, I could tell by the way he sucked on the joint with his gaze lost on the horizon, probably faraway from the beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower. It took a few seconds, minutes, maybe, until he put out the joint and left the rest carefully placed on the wrought iron railing. Then he looked me up and down, but if he noticed that I was wearing his sweater, he made no comment.

“Let's go back inside, Elio, I don't want you to get sick. And no, I not only care about my balls; I care about you, too.”

“Tell me what's going on.” I didn't move or give in.

It wasn't my imagination, he was restless, worried, and finally he said, “Okay—_fuck_… I don't know how to say this without it sounding totally wrong,” he muttered and rubbed his face with one hand. Suddenly, he looked older and even more tired. “I always thought I had a clear idea of who I was and what I wanted, you know? When I was younger, and more impulsive and reckless, at least. Then I grew up and life taught me that I can't do whatever the fuck I want, and that there are some rules that you sometimes have no choice but to conform to. Jesus… I'm giving you a _bloody_ speech.”

He hadn't said anything worrying (for the moment) but my heart had begun to beat wildly. I wanted to ask him to continue, but I didn't. I just looked at him in the hope that he understood that I was here, keen to listen to whatever he had to say.

“What I mean is: the divorce has allowed me to meet again the man you let sleep in your bed in Italy. But it's strange, this sudden _freedom_. It's like running into an old friend with whom you've shared hundreds of stories and experiences, but it's been so long since you've seen him that it's hard for you to imagine that once you knew everything about each other. I have met men in London; one-night stands that not only have helped me become familiar with that person I once thought I was but also with his body: its desires, its needs. I have enjoyed it, Elio, but they’ve been no more than meaningless hook-ups. I haven’t seen any of them twice, I don’t even remember most of their names.”

He looked at me for a second, as though to make sure I hadn't collapsed from boredom—like that would even be possible. Then he turned again, focusing his attention somewhere that was clearly very far from here.

“When I took the train this morning I wasn't expecting anything… just to be able to say hi to you, ask you to sign the CD, and maybe, _just_ maybe, sit down and chat and catch up while we had a cup of coffee. Tomorrow I’d visit the city, and on Wednesday I’d return to London in time for the kids’ arrival. That was the whole plan. Nothing else. But I'm not going to deny that I've thought a lot about it, Elio, about what it’d be like to see each other again without anything getting in our way. I've imagined that encounter many times, more than it's probably wise to admit. Many would say that this is insane and it's time for me to move on. I also question myself sometimes; how is it possible to be so infatuated with a person with whom you had a relationship fifteen years ago?”

The confession should have shocked me, but it hadn't. I already knew it. Just a few hours earlier, in that brief but intense encounter in which there was probably more desire than feeling, he had shown me about himself much more than he surely was aware of. And I understood him perfectly well because I'd been there, too. For a long, long time I had dreamed of seeing him again and that fantasy had been the great driving force behind some of my wild behaviour in New York. But it was also true that it had been a long time since I had thought about it; things had become too messy in the last couple of years to do so. I didn't want to say that I had forgotten him because it wouldn’t be true, the idea horrified me and I didn't think that was ever going to happen. But it was undeniable that Oliver had taken a significant back seat in my recent life. And now that we finally found ourselves with no excuses left, I wasn't sure what was left _in me_ that I could give him, apart from my body for some casual sex.

I didn't dare say anything. I didn't want to interrupt him now that he was so engrossed in his thoughts.

“It's probably the fucking expectations’ fault, but I didn't expect—” He clicked his tongue, as though he couldn't believe he was actually saying this. “I didn't expect this kind of emptiness between us, Elio. That's what I mean with all this. Everything was going incredibly well on the couch, but as soon as we got into bed something changed. Suddenly, everything was just like all the other times: distant, impersonal… I wouldn't even have been surprised if you had dressed and left as soon as we were done. It's always like that." He laughed harshly. “Fucking hell, maybe you're right and I've become a romantic idiot.”

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as though with it he was expelling all the sadness his words reflected. Meanwhile, I struggled to bite, chew and swallow them. I was going to need a lot more than water to digest all of this. Too sincere, too inopportune and as real and unexpected as pricking your finger on the thorn of a rose. How could something so beautiful be so treacherous and hurtful?

Oliver stayed silent, perhaps waiting for me to add something, but what could I say to him other than to acknowledge that he was right, and that for some time now I had been unable to open myself emotionally because I was terrified of the possible consequences? His honesty didn’t deserve this kind of complacency, and his words accounted for a reality that haunted me in such a way that all I could do was walk back into the room and start picking up my clothes. I heard him pronounce my name as only he could do, but I just needed to find my pants and my shirt and my jacket. Where the hell was my phone?

“What are you doing?” He came inside behind me.

“Call that taxi that I should’ve called right after, just like you said. Or, better yet, had called when we were still outside. That's what I should’ve done. Staying was a mistake.”

“Elio, please don't go.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do instead? It’s evident that you’re looking for something that I no longer know how to give you, and it’s not only that I don’t _know _how to give it to you, it’s that I don’t think that I’m _capable _of doing so.”

“I think you're wrong.”

“Really? You have just compared me to those other men you’ve fucked and whose names you admit to not remember.”

“And that's the damn problem, Elio! Since when has it been just sex between us? You didn’t even let me look you in the face!”

“Maybe I don't want you to see the person I've become!”

Why were we screaming?

I sucked in my breath and tried to calm down.

“You said it yourself, it happened fifteen years ago. It's absurd to keep clinging to that. I'm not that boy anymore. I'm not even the man you saw in New York. And I'm scared, Oliver, I'm scared that you see what everyone else does: someone cold, selfish, and who’s able to maintain a relationship for a whole fucking year with a person who he not only doesn’t love but deep down detests. But things are easier to handle that way because when it ends, and it _always_ ends, you don't feel anything, neither sorrow nor remorse nor pain. _Fuck_ what my father had to say about this. What's the point of suffering? You learn from it, he said. Well, I've suffered for the last two years and I haven't learned shit!”

I hadn't noticed, but Oliver had not only closed the window but had stopped in front of me, keeping a short but prudent distance between us.

“Talk to me, Elio…”

He stepped forward, but I put a hand up to stop him. I wasn't sure if I could do this. I had spent the last few months buried inside a hole devoid of emotion, away from anything that could hurt me, away from everything I loved because if I didn't have it, no one could take it away from me. It was a simple thing. But there had come a point where I felt that I lived in two parallel and completely opposite worlds. If only I could find a way to leave one of them behind. It wasn't easy, though, I had the dates imprinted on my memory like a tattoo that after ruining the skin takes a long time to heal. I knew that I couldn’t forget it even if I tried, and remembering was nothing more than a way of reviving an infinite number of unalterable, inert and fragmentary pieces that reconstructed events that I insisted on looking at from a safe distance, as though they had happened to someone else.

“Everything was going so well…” I surprised myself with the sound of my broken voice. “My personal and professional life; everything seemed to fit and work out all of a sudden, as if after years of wandering aimlessly I had finally found my way. But I've learned that good things can't last, Oliver, they just can't… I remember we were about to play in Atlanta when I got the call. Jamie, the bartender with the flower shirts, do you remember him? He told me that the police had found a friend of ours on the banks of the Hudson River, in the water, dead, murdered. She’d been beaten up and then dumped in the river like garbage. Sally. We performed and then left for New York immediately. And you cry and lament everything, but you always find a way to get on with your life.”

I felt my legs shaking again, but I didn't want to sit down because sitting was accepting and I wasn't ready to do it yet. Oliver looked at me, waiting patiently for me to continue.

“Then, only two months later, when I thought I had recovered from it all, I got another call.” I could already feel those invisible fingers wrapping around my throat, making it hard to speak. “It was my mom. I noticed something strange in her voice as soon as I picked up the phone. She wasn't crying at the time, but it was obvious that she had been earlier. She spoke quickly; she knows me like no one else. _Elio, the villa has burned down_, she said. At first I thought she was joking. But who the fuck would joke about something like that? A lightning bolt, they were told. No one was in the house, so by the time someone noticed the fire; the flames had already devoured everything. There's nothing left, Oliver… _nothing_.”

I didn’t bother to stop the tears that welled up in my eyes, and although Oliver seemed to strive to keep calm, I could sense the commotion on his face, dislodged by stupor.

“Some say it was just a house, but that's not true. I feel that something’s missing, as if a part of me has disappeared with it… and it doesn't even have anything to do with the property damage; all those memories, all those—”

It was still hard to grasp. That villa had been like a big protective mother that looks at you and pampers you from afar, and cradles you while it sees you take your first steps, say your first words, take your first bike ride, wear your first scar, have your first kiss, experience your first time with a girl and your first time with a boy, and also see you fall in love unconditionally, twice.

“But the worst came after: all that bureaucracy, the paperwork, the insurance, having to tell the new you that he no longer could come, all the cancellations and plan changing—my parents arguing day and night because they couldn’t agree on what to do with what's left: too unique to rebuild, too special to design a new one, too personal to sell.”

Oliver was looking me firmly in the eye, frozen.

“I was so fed up with everything… I took a plane and went back to the States to resume the tour. Disconnect from it all. But it was impossible. I don't know what I would’ve done if Fabi hadn't been there with me. But in the end, you manage as best as you can, and move on. There's no choice because there are people who expect things from you. But in November I received another call, my dad this time. He said they wanted to see me, _Maybe we could have dinner together?_ I thought that perhaps they’d reached an agreement about the villa, but no, it turned out that what they had decided was that the best thing for them would be to make separate lives… my _parents_, Oliver. I’ve done nothing but observe, admire and venerate them as far back as I can remember. Having what they had has been all I've ever wanted to achieve in my life. But if even they're not capable of making things last either, what's left for the rest of us?”

My voice sounded more and more brittle and my memories became more murky and oscillating as I dug them up.

“I was so angry with them that I got up and left them in the middle of dinner. And then, a week later, the phone rang again.” I paused, feeling exhausted. “The professor who’d been covering for Fabi had died suddenly. So Fabi left everything and went back to New York urgently. I couldn't believe we were going through all that. I didn't understand it, Oliver, but I didn't bother to do either. Why did my boyfriend had to leave me alone? Why, at my lowest moment, had the universe found a new way to drag me down even further? I said horrible things to him; you can't even imagine. So horrible that even Fabi, the nicest person I've ever met in my life, eventually had enough.”

I was short of breath, I felt as though my lungs were saturated and my whole chest was hurting just from the effort to contain the sobbing that was struggling so hard to break through.

“He asked me to give us some time; it was reasonable: think about it, think about us. But instead I started to do all this crazy and embarrassing shit. And no one stops you, Oliver, as long as you’re able to hold a guitar and sing, everything’s fine. They just pat you on the back, tell you they're sorry about what you're going through, but: _Can you get back on stage?_ And you smile, of course. You smile at the fans, you smile at the photographers, you smile at the journalists. There comes a moment in which it becomes a reflex. But you have no idea how hard it is to sell this life of fantasy that anyone would kill to have, when in reality you’re crumbling inside.”

Everything had become blurred, his face distorted, as in a mirage, under the veil of tears that clouded my vision.

“But that wasn't all… no," I continued, exhaling slowly with hardly any strength left. “There was another call… in January… Mafalda…”

And that was the last thing I was able to say before I broke down crying. Nothing I could say would equal the torment of losing the woman that I had loved like my own mother and whose presence and vitality I had always taken for granted—until she was gone.

Oliver pulled me into his arms immediately, pressing me against him with more force than I thought I could bear in this moment of absolute weakness. If he had dragged me to the balcony and pushed me over the railing I wouldn't have resisted. And I didn't, I didn't resist him because listening to his deep but soft voice as he repeated, _It's okay, it's okay, I've got you,_ was the most comforting thing I'd heard in months.

“I had no idea, Elio, I had no idea.”

He was trying to rein in his voice, but I could tell that he was crying, too. Would the day come when we’d see each other and not end up like this, overcome by feelings that overpowered us with the smell of things we thought were forgotten burning bright?

He took me to bed and we sat down, but he didn't let me go even when I managed to calm down.

“I'm so sorry, Elio. I wish I'd known. I wish—”

He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to because I knew, because even though it had only been a few weeks, he had also lost a family and a home in B. Then he asked me about Manfredi and Anchise. They’re very old, and the two had been very affected by everything that had happened with the house, just as Mafalda. In fact, I was absolutely convinced that her soul had left us the same day of the fire. For Manfredi, who was already showing Alzheimer's symptoms, Mafalda's death had been hard to cope with, and his health had worsened. Now he lived in a care home. Anchise had gone to _Pavia_ to be with his daughter. There was no one left.

“I'm sorry, too," I said then, pulling away so that I could look at him.

“Why?”

“Because I ruined everything. I ruined this night.”

He cupped my face with his big hands and held me firmly. “You're so stupid sometimes.”

Then he hugged me again, rocking me gently, and before I knew it, we were lying in bed.

“It's New York all over again," I said, snuggled against him, listening to the peaceful rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Just this time we actually fucked.”

“Yes… a very disappointing fuck, according to you.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Elio Perlman, do me a favour: shut up and sleep.”

I was alone in bed again when I woke up in the morning. The hazy light of the winter sun bathed the room in an ethereal hue. I sat up carefully; my head was throbbing, my stomach was groaning rabidly and my muscles were as numb as though I had taken part in a wrestling match—thinking about what we'd done, it wasn't so far from the truth. I glanced around but there was no sign of Oliver. The balcony doors were closed and there was no sound coming from the bathroom.

Suddenly, I felt a terrible urge to pee.

I crawled out of bed and shoved my face under the faucet of the bathroom sink after emptying my bladder, but it didn't seem likely that the water could fix this mess. My eyes were swollen, red, and dark circles that seemed to be painted with ink underlined them. As I was trying to do something with my crazy hair, I noticed that I was still wearing his green sweater. I grabbed it in a fist and pulled it up to my nose. It still smelled of him. Then I heard a light knock on the door, followed by a long struggle with the bolt and finally someone entered the room. I waited, not because I thought it could be someone else but perhaps to see if he’d miss me when he saw that I wasn't where he had left me—it's not that there was a possibility that I would’ve gone very far because all my clothes were still lying around, but who cared about the little details?

“Elio?”

It was amazing how that hoarse voice was able to pull all those strings inside of me.

I found him setting a tray full of food on the bed when I came out of the bathroom.

“Hey… Good morning," he said.

“Good morning. You got up very early.”

“Yeah, I don't know about you, but I'm _starving_, and since I wasn't sure about your French’s side preferences, I brought a little bit of everything. Are you hungry?”

There was orange juice, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, jam of at least three different flavours, butter, bread, crepes and croissants. Oliver smiled like a proud child who just successfully recited a lesson he had spent hours memorizing. My stomach, as entranced by the smell of freshly brewed coffee as the rest of my senses, purred in approval. The two of us settled in the middle of the bed, one in front of the other, with our legs crossed and without worrying too much about the sheets—this wasn’t even close to what they’d had to see hours before.

We tried everything without fussiness. He recommended me this; I recommended him that. _Oh, you have to try this apricot jam_, he suggested at some point.

_Like Mafalda's?_

_No, nothing can compare to the one Mafalda used to make_.

“How do you feel?” He asked me after a while, probably when he considered that the atmosphere between us was comfortable enough to take the risk.

“I feel a little better. What about you?”

He just nodded.

“I would’ve liked to have been there; not only to say goodbye to her but to be able to hug you… and your parents, and all the others.”

“I know. The truth is we didn't tell a lot of people, and you also had your own problems to deal with.”

“Yeah… I'm sorry if something I said yesterday offended you.”

“You mean that thing about me being the worst fuck you've ever had?” I smiled at him to show that I was only joking.

“Oh, come on, let it go. That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I know nothing, Oliver… but tell me, who was the best of your London affairs?”

“I told you, I don't remember their names.”

“I don't want his name, just a description. Was he tall, short, white, black, redhead, skinny, curly hair, green eyes—”

“You're impossible," he said, smearing my nose with apricot jam.

My shocked reaction made him burst out laughing. So did I. The sound of his laugh, almost as elusive as him, had always had a contagious and pleasurable effect on me. I wiped some jam off my face with my index finger and put it in my mouth. Yes, Mafalda's was much better. Oliver, who didn’t miss any detail of the not very subtle provocation, helped me clean the rest with a paper napkin before I could plot my revenge.

“I like this," he said, forcing a casual tone.

“It’s not bad.” I mocked him as I watched him dunk his croissant into the hot chocolate. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you have to ask, means that I probably won't like it. But, sure, go on.”

“Have you ever thought about what it would’ve been like if you had made a different decision… if you had waited for me?”

Oliver lifted his head and looked at me. I was aware that it was a risky question especially this early in the morning, and with alcohol already evaporated from our veins, but I managed to make it sound totally inoffensive.

“Yes," he answered without even taking time to think about it. "I've thought about it… and it wouldn't have worked.”

That caught me off guard.

“Why not?”

“Because I know myself, Elio, even now that I'm more comfortable with who I am, I'm still evasive in some ways. None of my colleagues know; maybe they suspect something, who knows? But I certainly don't go around introducing myself like: Hello, I'm Oliver Coleman and I like cocks. I don't want to imagine what it would’ve been like back then. And I told you in New York, I didn't want to tie you to something like that, you were still very young, you had a lot to see and experience, and I know you would’ve gotten tired of me, of my doubts, of hiding… so we would’ve broken up sooner or later. Then I’d surely have gone back to Charlotte, we would’ve gotten engaged, married, had two beautiful kids… and with the years I would’ve called you during one of my trips to New York because they say that time heals everything, right? _Why don't we see each other and catch up?_ You’d accept, through clenched teeth, and you’d tell me that you were composing music, that you’ve met a Frenchman with a somewhat peculiar sense of humour and—”

“And today we’d be here again.”

“Yes.”

“So everything would’ve been the same.”

“Exactly. But there's also another possibility… I try to go back to Charlotte but it turns out that Charlotte is already having a healthy relationship with another man, so I'm left alone and bitter. I meet other women, but nothing works, so I end up having a clandestine life, full of secrets. On the other hand, you and Marzia were able to overcome the inevitable bumps of adolescence and were happily married with children—“

I chuckled, cutting him off. “That's impossible.”

“Why? It's not like you don’t enjoy women’s company.”

“I do, but it's just that, for some reason, I don't see myself having a long-term relationship with a woman; random hook-ups are fine. But with a relationship I know it wouldn't work because sooner or later the conversation would turn to weddings, kids… and I don't see myself as a father.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don't think I’d be a good dad, my head is always here and there, and kids need attention, stability. And I'm not the most stable person. Besides, I don't like them that much—except yours, yours are great. And Marzia's, of course. You two have done a very good job without me.”

Oliver was finding all of this quite entertaining; I wished we could’ve been able to stay like this all day, just the two of us, talking about things we probably wouldn't have dared to mention in passing some time ago, but that now we joked about without fear of possible reproaches. I no longer felt that anguish every time I thought about what might have been and wasn't, and it was a reassuring feeling.

But the conversation was interrupted by the whining sound of my phone. It was the Dictator with his usual anxiety because he hadn’t found me in my room. I assured him that everything was fine and that I’d arrive in time for rehearsals.

“He sounds like your babysitter," Oliver commented when I hung up.

“He _is_ my babysitter, with good intentions but very little patience.”

“Do you miss him?”

He didn't say his name, but he didn't have to. I shrugged my shoulders as I put on my pants. I didn't look at him but I knew Oliver was watching. Did I miss Fabi? Of course I missed him, but things weren't going to change; what good would it do me to keep tormenting myself about it?

“Keep it," he said, as I was about to take off his sweater.

I scrutinized him carefully, as though to make sure I hadn’t misheard him, but there had been no trace of doubt in his words, and his smile said everything I needed to know. I smiled back at him and accepted his gift by putting my jacket over it without hesitation.

“Why don't you come see us rehearsing?”

“Are you sure? Isn't that like a secret or something?"

"A secret?"

"For the fans; they always want to know those kind of things, right? If you're going to play this or that song and all that stuff."

"Are you gonna tell them?"

"Never. They'd have to torture me."

“And something tells me they wouldn’t mind.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, if you survive and you want to, we can eat out after we’re done; visit the city. That was your plan anyway, wasn't it?”

“That was the plan, yes.”

I wrote the name of the venue, our schedule and my phone number on a piece of paper.

“Thanks for breakfast.”

“I hope it made up for last night.”

“I don’t know… I'm sure we can work a little more on it.”

I was so glad all the tension from hours ago was gone. Yet, Oliver didn’t move from the bed, as though he thought it was best not to rush things again, for the moment. I hadn’t noticed his scruffy appearance until now, his hair was ruffled, his face haggard with sleeplessness and his jaw was covered with surprisingly dark stubble. There was a degree of vulnerability in his countenance that I was not accustomed to. I was dying to kiss him; I wanted to hold him, dressed or naked.

“Okay, see you there, then?” I asked.

“Sure. Later!”

_Later_.

It couldn't be any other way.


	7. Six

I saw him instantly, thanking the guy that had accompanied him there as he settled into one of the ornamented boxes that gave the hall the appearance of an old theatre. It was not a big venue and that was the reason we had chosen it: intimate, unique, and the acoustic was impeccable. It was going to be a very special concert.

Oliver watched us attentively, arms resting on the wadded baluster while, on stage, we were engaged in a loop of half played songs, discussions of all the aspects that could be improved, and started all over again. At some point he waved his hand timidly in my direction, as though to let me know that even with his French, which was worse than his Italian, he had found the place—yet, I was sure he knew that I already knew he was there.

We played for two long hours until we were satisfied with the progress of the new tunes.

“I can't wait for Sunday," Victoria said.

“Yeah, it sounds great so far.” Carson climbed out from behind his drum kit, his long hair tucked in a tangle on the back of his neck. “But is your voice okay?”

“Carson!" Jameela glared at him.

“What? It's just a question…”

I had decided not to sing any of the songs today. I knew I’d sound like a tortured chicken after last night, and I needed neither more condescending looks nor more pressure than I was already under.

“My voice’s fine. Tomorrow we'll try to play the whole set.”

They looked at each other, prudently, but accepted the proposal without objection. Carson gathered his things and disappeared backstage with a brief, _See you all tomorrow_.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with Jameela and me; it's been a long time since we've spent time together, and I've already given up on Carson,” Victoria said. “But I've seen that we have an audience."

“I'm glad that the thing with Bernard isn't affecting you that much,” Jameela added.

“Bernard was an asshole." Then, aware of what she just had said, Victoria looked at me. "Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “You're not wrong.”

I signalled Oliver to find a way down here. Victoria and Jameela, meanwhile, attacked me with a bunch of nosy questions: _What is he doing here? Is he alone? Where did you spend the night? Were you with him?_ I remained silent as though their sharp voices weren’t shattering my ears. Then they plastered their best smiles on when Oliver appeared on stage. He had got lost twice in the labyrinth of corridors (there were only two) and no one seemed to speak English here. He greeted Victoria and Jameela with his natural charm—both remembered him from San Diego. Mr America, of course, impossible to forget. He praised their work; the sound was amazing. _Wait until the place is full of people on Sunday_, Vitoria told him before they both said goodbye, leaving us alone.

“They seem nice," Oliver said as we made our way to the dressing room.

“Don't trust them, they're two witches, and now that they share fluids, who knows what they conspire when they're alone."

Halfway we met Davis and the Dictator. Davis was enthusiastic about how the soundcheck had gone, Burton showed himself more reserved. I introduced them to Oliver as a family friend. Davis was familiar with his face. _Yes, we’ve met in San Diego_, Oliver confirmed. Not only did he know how to make a good impression but he also didn't seem to forget the faces and names of those who crossed his path. Except for his one-night stands, apparently.

“Guess who came to visit today, too?” I prompted him.

His eyes went wide when I opened the dressing room door and he saw Marzia sitting on the only couch, playing with Lucas, her son.

“_Oh, mon Dieu!_”

Marzia leapt to her feet and the two crashed into a spontaneous embrace that they complemented with all manners of praise. _You look great_. _You haven't changed a bit_. _I remembered you were tall but not this much!_ Marzia's English had improved exponentially, so she had no problem getting caught up in a string of questions that Oliver answered and returned with the same polite admiration while trying to explain his personal situation briefly and without drama. Suddenly, it was as though distance and time had never come between us, the three of us could be in B. right now, spending a pleasant morning in the garden after a hearty breakfast while the children ran around the trees and took a dip in the fountain.

I erased the image from my brain as fast as it came.

I let Oliver and Marzia catch up and sat with Lucas, who began to name all the dinosaurs he had scattered onto the seat. I’d never imagined that anyone could collect so many miniature toy animals; there were at least fifteen different species that Lucas, who was only four years old, knew how to distinguish perfectly. To me they all looked the same. I’d take one randomly and repeat its name, which was always the wrong one—this annoyed him deeply. _Ce n'est pas un brontosaure!_ He exclaimed with that high-pitched tone that suggested, _Are you stupid or what?_ I loved to goad him. _I really don't understand why he likes you so much_, Marzia had told me a few times.

“It's great to see that you're still close," Oliver said when we were sitting in a restaurant after greeting some fans, who’d been waiting at the stage door all morning. Oliver had survived just fine.

I had insisted, but Marzia had not wanted to join us, she had things to do and it had gotten late. Could I remind her where the exit was? Which had been another way of saying, _Can we talk privately for a second?_ She had looked at me very cagily, which had shocked me considering how animated she’d been a moment before.

“_Qu'est-ce qui se passe?_” She had asked.

“Nothing's going on. He just showed up here.”

“Divorced.”

“Divorced, yes.”

“And I guess you didn't spend the night together.”

“We did spend the night together. We're two adults with no responsibilities. What's the problem?”

“What about Fabi?”

“What about Fabi?”

"I talked to him and he's coming in three days. I thought… I thought everything was better between you two, that you were fixing things."

This had made me feel as though she had pierced my chest with a tablespoon. Why did everyone talk to Fabi except me?

“We're trying, but… frankly, Fabi is better off without me, and I don't think things can be fixed that way. I just want him to keep answering my calls; that's all I ask. No. Not really. I'm not satisfied with just that. Our friendship is everything to me, Marzia, but I don't want to force things, much less a reconciliation that I know is not possible.”

Marzia had caressed my arm with some kind of maternal affection. _Just promise me you won't do anything stupid_, she’d said before she’d left. I couldn't promise that. She had laughed because, deep down, she’d known it was true.

“If you saw Chiara… you wouldn't recognize her,” I told Oliver, having a look at the menu.

The food wasn't very good, but we didn't care. We talked with ease about everything, linking one topic with the next without the silences weighing between us. We remembered New York. How different this was from that weekend: the reluctance and fear of wanting to ask and inquire, and not knowing how to do it. When we were brought dessert, I took out an envelope and gave it to him.

“What's this?” He asked, confused. I urged him to look at what was inside. There were three VIP passes to Sunday's concert. “Elio…”

“I'd love it if you'd come. Besides, if Sean is as big a fan as you say, he'll sure be thrilled, and you'll be the best dad in the world. Everyone wins.”

“The truth is that Sean told me about it on the phone. I don't know how he finds out about all these things, but he told me that you were going to perform the same week they were coming. He tried to blackmail me emotionally with his impeccable grades and plenty of _Pleeeease_ and _You know that I love you a lot, don't you, Dad?_ But I categorically said no to him. I don't know why, honestly, I suppose refusing is a father's first instinct. Then I reconsidered and thought it would be a great Christmas gift for him—he's such a good boy, Elio. But the tickets were already sold out. I got a bit mad." He laughed. "Deep down, I also wanted to come, but on second thought: I don't have anyone to leave Sophie with either, I don't think a gig is a place for her, and a signed CD is also a good present, too, isn't it?”

“Don't worry about Sophie, you'll be in one of the boxes, and we'll give her some noise-reducing headphones. Marzia will be there, Fabi will be there…”

Oliver smiled and put the envelope in his coat pocket.

“Thank you so much for this, really. Sean's gonna go crazy and so will Sophie. I'm not lying when I say they like you a lot, and you have no idea how smart that little rascal is.”

Sophie was already six years old, and apparently was not the princess with a delicate and impeccable attitude that loved the pink plush bows and doll dresses that her grandparents expected her to wear. Instead, Sophie was extroverted (sometimes excessively, according to her father), and she could play football with other kids just as good as she made clothes for her dolls. In fact, she loved being able to choose how to dress whenever she had the chance. Charlotte watched over her a bit more, but Oliver let her wear whatever she wanted, and the result was sometimes the most bizarre. As for her brother? Not only did he encourage her extravagant tastes, he was her silent partner in crime, doing some of her crazy hairdos. But Sean was calmer. _Thank God_ (Oliver's words). He was a book lover and listened to all kinds of music, and could spend hours in his room either reading or just lying on his bed, listening to record after record as he tried to pick up the melodies with his guitar.

“He reminds me of you in so many ways," Oliver said as we strolled through _Parc des Buttes-Chaumont_, letting the two shots of Grand Mariner we had drunk after lunch settle. _It's just a digestive_, they’d said, but I felt like my tongue was loosening up just like it usually did after having a couple of _margaritas_.

“Be careful then, that can't be a good sign.”

“I think your parents did a good job with you.”

“If you mean not putting too many restrictions on me, I agree.”

We went around the beautiful lake and after that I led Oliver south. The sky was cloudier and the light had turned grey, but I was grateful for the cool, moist breeze that had risen. We hadn't made any plans, Oliver had told me the things he’d planned to see, but I took the idea out of his head. That's what everybody visits. Boring. So we left the park and wandered around, stopping at the bars that, in Oliver's opinion, looked nice.

“You like to see me drunk, don't you?” I said, trying a cocktail that tasted like medicine but that I was unable to stop drinking.

“Let me remind you that I wanted to go see Notre Dame. Also, nobody’s forcing you; you can always opt for a coffee or Coke.”

I laughed at him.

“Ah, of course! I forgot: sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, right?”

“Let's leave it at: sex and rock n’ roll.”

“No drugs?”

“Well, I already told you that there’s been a complicated period during that time I struggled with my relationship with Fabi. I did a lot of stupid things. But I take Miss Indigo very seriously. I feel after everything that has happened it’s all I’ve left…”

“Don't say that, Elio, you know it's not true.”

“Yeah, well… but what I'm experiencing now, this professional moment, is something that won't happen again, and I'm scared to screw it all up. There was a night, I don't even remember where it was; I was so drunk and high… the concert was a real disaster. The Dictator-_Burton_, managed to keep that from getting out to the press and although I appreciate his efforts, deep down I don’t care about it that much. The fans’ disappointment though… _Never again_, I said to myself. In fact, I have absolutely forbidden Victoria, Jameela and Carson to drink or take anything before going on stage. After, they can do whatever they want.”

“Sounds wise.”

“There's nothing wise about trying not to be a complete asshole.”

“Well, realizing that you're making a mistake is an important step towards improvement.”

“Who’s the wise man now?”

We resumed our walk to _Père-Lachaise_ cemetery under an increasingly overcast sky, yet the atmosphere was pleasant, and the threat of rain didn’t deter the few brave souls who walked quietly as in any other park, or the tourists who came to visit the tombs of illustrious people buried here, both out of admiration and curiosity. We stopped by Oscar Wilde's grave, covered with tributes written and sealed with lipstick. Oliver looked at me knowingly.

“I just realized I didn't thank you for the book you gave me in New York," he said.

“Yes, you did.”

“I did right there, but not afterwards. Interesting read… I understand why you chose it.”

“I don't have the gift of subtlety, do I?”

“No, you don’t, but I like that, it's very you.”

“Really? And what else is _very_ _me_?”

"Do you really want me to say it?"

"Please."

“Okay… you are sure of what you feel,” he said, as he circled the tomb, studying and caressing with his fingers all those carmine prints. “You're in touch with your emotions and you're very passionate about it—also very ambitious in all aspects of your life, though not in an arrogant way. But what I like most about you is that you don’t seem to be intimidated by anything or anyone even though you may feel insecure at times. You have no idea how much I admire and envy that.”

I had asked the question lightly, like a secret joke between us, but his answer had sounded very thoughtful, and his words had succeeded in soothing my insolence downright. Maybe I was really confronting a new Oliver, an Oliver who did remind me of the one I had desired, admired and pursued in Italy. Only this Oliver was much more mature, more experienced in triumphs and failures, and much more certain of what he wanted for himself. His frankness had stunned me last night and touched me today. Especially, as I was not sure I saw myself reflected in the person he was describing.

“It’s funny that you’d think that," I said, dodging some of the mausoleums and leaning against the trunk of one of the nearby trees, sheltering under its long branches. “Because that’s exactly the image I had of you in Italy. I envied you so much, Oliver. You have no idea. Your body, your confidence, your independence… Not only did I want to be with you in every way imaginable, I also wanted to be you.”

“It was all a façade. Although, I’m sure you figured that out later.” He followed and joined me in my improvised hiding place.

“Maybe, but knowing that you were as human and as imperfect as I was made me love you even more.”

“Then I think nothing has changed because I'm still as human and as imperfect as I was then.”

He was so close that all I could feel was the warmth of his body. Emboldened, I grabbed the waistband of his trousers and pulled him against me; my hips perfectly aligned to meet his. He groaned loudly.

“And I'm still as brazen and stubborn as ever.”

“I had already noticed that… but I don't think this is the right place.”

“The right place for what, _Americano_?”

We heard the murmur of a conversion and Oliver stepped away immediately, shaking his head.

He was smiling.

We passed by Jean de La Fontaine’s tomb next, where Oliver recited to me some of his most celebrated morals that had inspired his own books. Then he told me that he’d planned to put his excursion into children's literature aside for some time to focus on the research for the book that he’d wanted to write for quite some time about the role of some ancient female philosophers.

A thin drizzle had begun to fall, but that didn't stop us, and we continued until we reached Jim Morrison's grave. It was one of the most visited spots in the cemetery but the harsh weather seemed to have frightened most people away, and fortunately there was only a couple and a young guy sitting there, playing one of the band's best-known tunes on his guitar. It was a thought-provoking image, but it also made me wonder if the music industry would ever have another figure capable of transcending his music in such a way. The couple left a moment later, and we didn't want to bother the musician, but before we had moved too far, the boy lifted his head from the strings and, with an accent that I couldn't identify but wasn't French, said, "I'll see you on Sunday."

“Isn't it weird to be recognized in the streets by complete strangers?” Oliver asked after settling in the corner of a small cafeteria.

“It's weird, yes. Miss Indigo still has a long way to go, but sometimes I underestimate the power of certain media.”

“I don't think it's just the media that makes people feel that kind of attraction for you.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, sir?”

“I'm being observant.”

“It's shocking, and sometimes scary. But when they come up to me and tell me their stories, and what the music I write means to them, it makes me feel… I don't know how to explain it.”

“Does it give your ego a boost?”

“Oh, believe me, it's so much more than that. It makes you feel like you're finally doing something good in your life.”

“Your parents must be very proud of you. I saw them in San Diego, the expression on their faces…”

“Well, you know them, they'd be proud of anything that doesn't mean seeing me locked up in a cell isolated from the world.”

“You said your mother is living here. Is she coming to the concert, too?”

Fortunately, Oliver had discarded the idea of further experimenting with cocktails, so I felt more confident as I placed the beer bottle on the table.

“I don't know. I haven't spoken to her or my dad since Mafalda's funeral.”

“You're right, your stubbornness is something that hasn't changed.”

“Look, I know I'm behaving like a fool, I don't need you or Fabi to remind me. But this snowball has gotten so big that it’s now an avalanche and I don't know how to stop it.”

“Pick up the phone and call her it's not that complicated, Elio.”

“Well, it took you nine years to realize that.”

“_Okaaay_… touché, I guess,” he said, drinking from his beer bottle. “Yeah, I may not be the best person to give you advice, but I see it from a parent's point of view: right now it's not up to my kids to call me, and to think that someday they can decide for themselves they might not want to breaks my heart. You may think your parents have made a mistake, but, if I may say so, I think their decision was very brave.”

“Brave?”

“Yes, it’s laudable that two people who have spent almost half of their lives together accept that they will do much better separately. It's so easy to settle for what you have, Elio. We are afraid to risk taking complicated steps that will turn our lives upside-down, even though we know it’ll help us find the happiness we are pursuing somewhere else.”

“Are you talking about them or about yourself?”

Oliver smiled.

“A little bit of both. I don't consider myself brave, though. If it had been up to me, I would’ve fought for my marriage even though I knew it wasn't going anywhere. But to accept otherwise would’ve meant to assume that I was being the problem, and that's not easy. No matter what you think you saw in Italy, Elio, I don't have the courage you have.”

“Not even now?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Show me.” I stretched out one leg and placed it between his knees. We had already played this game in the past, in my parents’ presence, but this time we were alone, sitting at that little round table that didn't even remotely function as a border between our worlds. Oliver closed his legs, squeezing his calves against mine, then moved one leg, caressing my knee with the inside of his. If only he knew that with this tiny gesture he had already managed to make me hard.

“I thought you'd have had enough after last night,” he said.

“It wasn't me who acted all disappointed.”

“How long will you keep bringing that up?”

“Until I change your mind.”

Oliver leaned over the table; it really was a small table. I just had to get a little closer to be almost nose-to-nose with him.

“Don’t you get it, Elio? It's them, _all_ of them, and then there's you. It'll always be you.”

I would have asked him to go back to the hotel right there. No. The hotel was too far away. I'd be content with a hostel or a guesthouse or even a secluded and dirty toilet, I didn't care. But no, it couldn't be like that, Oliver was a romantic now. Perhaps he always had been, and it was me who didn't understand the difference between getting laid and making love. But that wasn't true either because with Fabi there had been a lot of love, and with Oliver too, back then, when he had believed that everything that was going on between us was nothing but fun and games for me. It was the urgency that pushed me, the same one that had possessed me yesterday, and the one that had been making decisions for more than a year, and the one that was yelling at me that if I didn't take what was being offered to me right now, I might lose it forever, like everything else.

Oliver stood up, leaving me alone with my whirlwind of thoughts and paid for our drinks while I tried to contain the intemperance of my body. It wasn’t close to dinnertime and I was already longing to have his cock in my mouth.

We had time for that.

Let's take it one step at a time.

Who was I trying to fool?

Outside, the weather was getting worse and darker, making nightfall come early, although the annoying invisible rain had stopped dampening everything for the moment. We walked in silence for a couple of blocks. There was a part of me, the prudent one I imagined, that refused to think about what Oliver had said and what it meant. Then, there was this other Elio, indomitable, dreamer, who would’ve clutched on to him and asked him to repeat all of it until he lost his voice or the words lost all meaning.

Moments later, in a small square, we came across a bike rental space. I had heard of its establishment in other European cities, but I hadn’t seen any until now.

“In London they tried this, too, but all the bikes ended up stolen," Oliver said.

“Fancy a ride?”

“In a foreign city, during winter, when it's almost night and it's about to rain again?”

“Sure, why not?” I was already sitting on one of the bikes. “Come on, _Americano_! For old times’ sake.”

“All I remember is the scorching sun and roads and hills without a single car that could kill us.”

“You're really getting old and grumpy.”

I rushed down the street despite not having much practice. Oliver followed me closely. He was right, not as much fun as in the countryside, with the hot air whipping our faces and billowing our sweaty clothes. Here, instead of the anonymous and subtle singing of the cicadas, were the sharp horns of the cars. Still, we ended up laughing hard and loud by the time we got to _Parc de Bercy_. We hid the bikes and crossed the walkways that still retained the rails of the trains that had brought the wine to the old warehouses. In the more than thirty minutes it had taken us to get there, the night seemed to have fallen like a blackout blind, dense and solid, almost without warning, so the park was quiet—perfect to get some fresh air. I told Oliver that on the western end was the largest Parisian entertainment venue.

“Do you see yourself playing there someday?” Oliver asked.

“Maybe…”

At this time there was hardly anyone about, so we walked by the _Maison du Jardinage_ like two lovers who joke and laugh without fear or apprehension of physical contact, perhaps induced by the accumulated alcohol that made us feel less guarded than usual. Perhaps because of the protection offered by the darkness of the early night that hid us from everyone's eyes and that was only disturbed by the warm light of the lampposts. Or perhaps because modesty was part of a language already extinct between us. The park became a romantic garden—how many times had I come here with Fabi to escape the noise of the city and the tourists, to contemplate the fountains inhabited by ducks and water lilies, and the small lake and its island? We had kissed here and jerked each other off like teenagers behind the bushes.

I took Oliver by the hand and led him away from the lights toward the darkest part of the bank of the pond. _Kiss me_, I urged him, and his lips were on mine in a second. Subtly at first until I opened my mouth inviting him in. I wanted everything from him. I didn't care about the cold, I didn't care about the dampness of the air and I didn't care if anyone saw us or if everything around us disappeared. I only cared about him, feeling his breath mixing with my breath, his body pressing against my body and his tongue caressing my tongue.

Suddenly, it started pouring down. It was possible that the first light drops had been warning us minutes earlier but we had been too engrossed in each other to worry. Now, we ran through the park as fast as we could to where we had left our bikes. I was sure I’d cough up my lungs, not only because of the effort I was no longer used to, but also because we laughed out of control all the way. I felt so intoxicated by everything that was going on that I was unable to keep my balance on the bike and fell off before I even started pedalling. I couldn't stop laughing, and neither could Oliver, not even when he came up to me to ask if I was okay and lend me a hand.

We took refuge in a bus shelter until it dried up a little and then crossed over to the other side of the Seine in search of a restaurant in which to dine and warm up—something that took us longer than expected.

“Okay, I'm starting to worry about my balls," Oliver said when I had an uncontrollable coughing fit.

“I'm fine, I just need some water.”

“More?”

We burst out laughing again.

We didn't bother to take a look at the menu but asked the waitress to bring us the best they had to offer. This dinner was on me.

“I don't know if I'll be able to eat anything else for a week," Oliver grunted, rubbing his belly outside the restaurant an hour later.

“Don't worry, another bike ride will do wonders.”

We had eaten and drunk like animals, but at least it had stopped raining.

“I don't know if we're in the best of conditions to drive any kind of vehicle.”

We looked for the bikes anyway, but they were gone; someone had taken them, someone had _stolen_ them. I couldn't believe it. Olivier insisted that it was okay that we had traipsed enough all afternoon, and that we could take a taxi. I ignored him and started to walk up the street, absorbed by my outrage and grumbling all sorts of insults that I reformulated in another language when I couldn't think of more. Oliver followed me, begging me, with laughter, to _please stop_, which only infuriated me further.

“You don't listen to me, you don't listen to me. _Putain j’y crois pas!_"

He gripped my hand hard and dragged me to a lonely alley. There, he pushed me against the wall and sealed my mouth and my protests with his lips, asking me with every kiss to shut up for a second.

“What will you do if I don't?”

“You're insufferable," he said, but kissed me again.

Fuck the stupid bikes.

Every time he stopped to get some air or to check if we were still alone, I asked him to kiss me again. Please, Oliver, don't stop.

“Remember that corner in Bergamo, in _Piazza Duomo_, where you kissed me, just like this?” I said to him, fisting the lapels of his coat and assaulting his neck, his chin, his cheeks and his eyelids. “I go there every time I visit the city, Oliver. I'll never forget it. I don't think I'll ever forget it.”

I thought I heard him say, _Me neither_, but I wasn't sure, his lips met mine again in a violent kiss that made me groan against his mouth. I loved this simplicity devoid of circumspections. We were just two men connected, hands, lips and hips, the only thing keeping us apart were our clothes. He sighed in surprise when I put a hand between us and grabbed his crotch. Feeling in my fingers how hard he was made me even harder. Yet Oliver held my wrist firmly and pulled it away.

“Behave," he whispered in a deep voice, then pecked me on the lips and returned to the main street to stop a taxi, leaving me there, whining like an abandoned dog. I didn't think I could walk, my whole body felt as squashy as the butter we had eaten that morning. I didn't even know how to sit in the car because of the mixture of nerves and anticipation. I didn't dare look at him either, though I did let a furtive hand cross the strait that separated us until it bumped into what I imagined was his thigh. Oliver placed his hand on mine and then squeezed it before withdrawing it back to a safe place.

“Do I need to act like a gentleman and invite you to come up?” I asked him when the taxi stopped in front of my hotel.

“You can try, but… honestly, I think it's better if I don't.”

At first I thought he was just joking, teasing, like we’d been doing for most of the day. But when I looked into his face, he was very serious. I felt like all the water that had soaked my clothes hours before seeped through each fibre of fabric to reach my skin and cover it with an icy blanket, like the ice crusting on the riverbanks.

“What was all this about, then?”

“I have enjoyed every single second of this day, Elio, I don't want you to think otherwise. But we should take things easy, I don't want to repeat last night.”

“So you admit that last night was a mistake.”

“Don't twist my words, please, it has nothing to do with that." Oliver looked at the taxi driver apprehensively, and then lowered his voice. “_Shit_, there's nothing I want more than to spend the night with you, Elio, but it's better this way for now.”

“It's better for whom?” I wasn't keeping my voice down.

“Both of us.”

I had begged him once, in New York, I had begged him to take me with him, to take me, even if only for the last time. It’s possible that I also begged him in Italy, but I was not willing to do it again here. If this was what he wanted or what he thought was best, okay then.

“All right, have a good night and a good trip. Say hello to the kids for me.”

I paid my share and got out of the car. He called after me, but I closed the door in his face before he could say anything else.

I felt colder than I had felt outside waiting for the elevator. I didn't want to be irritated or disappointed, but it was very hard not to. Perhaps tomorrow, when the flame had dissipated, I could understand him better, understand his point, but at this moment I was unable to.

I changed my mind as soon as the elevator bell rang and the doors opened, and headed for the bar on the other side of the foyer. I wasn’t sure what time it was, whether it was too late or too early, but there were barely six people sitting at the small tables, drinking and chatting under the soft light. At the end of the room I saw a nice grand piano. I sat there without even thinking about it and started playing the first thing that came to my mind for a few minutes, until the notes began to sound empty and superfluous. I heard some shy clapping as I walked over to the lonely bar. I ordered vodka and soda, and then another one after.

“You're very talented.”

The inopportune voice belonged to a tall man with dark blond hair that had a bit of a reddish tint—or maybe it was the light. He spoke perfect English and smiled with the confidence of someone who knows to be handsome. He was. He asked me if he could join me. _Sure_. I noticed that he was wearing what looked like a bespoke suit, impeccably ironed, although it was palpable that he’d had a very long day; he wore his shirt unbuttoned, and the tie hung from his arm along with his woollen coat. He left both on the bar, revealing the glass he had half drunk already.

“Now I understand the fuss," he added, once he sat on the stool next to me.

I didn't quite understand what he meant, but I accepted what I imagined to be a compliment, shrugging my shoulders.

“Don't trust what most people say,” I said.

“I don't, but I trust my ears. It was a sad song, though. Beautiful but sad.”

“One of Tchaikovsky's most famous pieces; it’s said that he composed it inspired by the love he felt for a boy who was only fifteen. The boy shot himself just a few years later.”

“Damn… why are tragic stories so appealing to us?”

“Because it makes us feel better to know that we’re not the only miserable ones suffering for the same stupidities.”

“And what can make someone who is admired by so many suffer?”

“The simplest things, like anyone else. Or aren’t you sad to be in a foreign country, away from your wife and kids in the middle of the holidays?”

“How do you know I have wife and kids?”

“The kids are just an assumption, but the wedding ring is quite telling.”

He covered the golden band around his finger impulsively.

“Smart.”

“Just used to it," I said, putting the empty glass on the bar.

“Let me invite you to another one.”

“Save the drinks." I left the money on the counter and stood up. “My room’s 438.”


	8. Seven

I’d thought at dawn I'd be able to see things in a better light.

How wrong I'd been.

I felt sick, my body stiff and feverish. I would’ve vomited right there on the spotless carpet but I didn't want to put on a show in front of George… or Gregory. Gordon? It started with a G for sure. Oliver wasn't the only one with problems memorizing the names of his hook-ups, apparently. Why retain that information, anyway, if things were going to end the way they started, with shallow and vulgar words that constantly changed their meaning?

I was sitting on the vanity dresser, my body wrapped in one of those soft bathrobes that people so often took as a souvenir. I was watching G as he picked up his clothes calmly; he seemed neither troubled nor displeased. In fact, he spoke with peculiar cheerfulness about the _shit_ day that awaited him.

The night before, he’d told me that he was working as an executive for a British multinational whose name he hadn't mentioned (or if he had, I didn't remember) and that they were about to close a very important and _juicy_ deal that couldn't even wait for the end of the holidays. So there he was, ready to spend Christmas Eve alone in a foreign country whose language he spoke poorly. He didn't necessarily sound upset, though, but who was I to judge? I had only asked him out of politeness so that we could have something to distract ourselves with as we undressed unceremoniously. He had suggested drinking something before getting down to business, to break the ice—because he’d been nervous? It hadn’t looked like this was the first time he'd done something like this. I hadn't felt like drinking; it would’ve made it likely that my body refused to respond to his touches. But I’d offered him something anyway and had joined him taking a few discreet sips of champagne courtesy of the hotel. Then he’d taken out a tiny plastic bag of coke.

“With the things you've surely seen, I guess this won't shock you," he’d said. “It's been a long couple of days and it doesn't look like it's going to get much better. I’m amazed by how stubborn some of these magnates can be.”

He’d cut two lines, one for him and one for me, in exchange for the champagne. _I’m not paying for any of this_, I had told him. He had taken it as a joke. The high had hit him immediately, and then he’d asked me to fuck him.

“Sometimes I think about quitting this damn job," he said now, looking well rested as he put on his pants. “The salary is good, but I spend more time on airplanes and in hotels than at home. Last time, I was away for three weeks. Switzerland. All expenses paid. Lovely. And very interesting people—you know what I mean… but when I came back I was almost unable to recognize my own daughter. She's that age at which they grow up so fast.”

“I’m sure they miss you," I assured him lazily just so he didn't get the impression that he was talking to the walls. He looked at me with the first expression of true tenderness.

“Yeah… my little girl goes crazy every time she sees me walk through the door. _Shit_, I still have to buy her Christmas presents. You'd think it's weird, don’t you? This.”

He didn't go into details because it didn’t matter, in the end. I knew exactly what he meant. I almost laughed at him, but laughing was the last thing I wanted to do.

“Not at all.”

I would’ve told him that he was no different from the others, who not only lied to those they claimed to love but also deceived themselves, looking for something they pretended, often with disgust, not to need while desperately trying to convince themselves to want something that didn't really fulfil them. But how did that differ from what I was doing, retreating from what I longed for the most but which also meant a lot of effort to fight for, to instead focus on things that cost me nothing, neither to get nor to discard?

He nodded, accepting that, indeed, he wasn't the first and probably wouldn't be the last either. His expression became taciturn, and for a second I felt sorry for him, but not enough to really care. It was his problem, not mine. His sudden consternation was short-lived, though—he pointed to the polished wooden surface of the dresser on which I sat, towards the neat line of coke an inch away from my thigh, and asked me if I wanted to take it. I shook my head. My feet were resting on a chair and he carefully pushed them aside to sit down and then let them rest in his lap.

“I’m already dreading this day." He leaned down, making the white powder disappear in one swift go.

I saw myself right there, in those seconds of vulnerability, when the body takes its time to assimilate the substance with which you're asking it to get going even if that's the last thing it needs—a defeated mind that I kept forcing to function.

“_Fuck_…” he mumbled when he opened his eyes. “I had such a great time last night. Honestly, I had some reservations about you; when someone gets this famous I tend to be a bit cynical, but you pleasantly surprised me. You really seem to have all sorts of skills…”

He was caressing the inside of my knee, gently moving his hand up until it got lost underneath the bathrobe, between my legs, massaging my cock. I wished my body was more connected to my brain; the only thing I wanted was to be left alone, but that traitor down there dared to respond very enthusiastically.

“I'm not leaving until Friday," he said. "Maybe we can see each other again?”

“Maybe…" I replied, not even thinking, too bored to sound as indifferent as I would’ve liked. So I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “But now I have to get ready; the last thing you want to see is my manager knocking that door down.”

I jumped off and went into the bathroom.

Why did I feel so dirty?

I was free to do whatever I wanted. Fabi had left me. Rightly so. Bernard… I wasn't even sure who the fuck Bernard was anymore. And Oliver? Did he think he could show up after years of silence, say all those things, and expect me to just fall at his feet?

The hell was I saying?

Hadn't I been the one who got angry because Oliver had refused to spend the night with me? It was the best thing for both of us, he’d said, whatever that meant.

He didn't want me anymore; it couldn't be anything else if his reaction after I let him fuck me after years of longing was any indication. I’d been disappointing. Perhaps I hadn't put much enthusiasm into it. But no. No. I was sure I had. It was passion that had lacked. I had become so accustomed to this, to give and take without expecting anything in return, as though I was on autopilot all the time. And it was important not to forget that Oliver was a romantic and I was an incompetent pretender. Perhaps that was the problem, that I hadn’t known how to hide from him the kind of person I was now, and that had repulsed him. But this couldn't be either in view of all that he had confessed later.

Why are you doing this to me, Oliver?

I was confused enough already and then you had to appear all of a sudden to complicate things even more with your, _It's them, and then there's you_.

Someone knocked on the room’s door. I groaned, grateful for the distraction. I wanted to check what time it was, but I didn't have my watch with me. _Can you tell them I'm getting ready?_ I asked G, who was still wandering around the room. And that's exactly what he did. The voice that answered, though, was none of those that I would’ve expected.

_I'm sorry… I think I've got the wrong room._

It wasn't a question, but it sounded like one.

I hurried out of the bathroom as though hurled by an invisible string.

There he was.

G was very attractive, and this was a conclusion I'd come to not just last night, when the excess of vodka had begun to alter the perception of everything around me, but also this morning, when I’d woken up and caught him looking at me with a complacent smile on his face. He had a demeanour that was not within everyone's reach, with a well-formed body, not very muscular, but toned and well proportioned. It was obvious that he took care of himself even though he didn’t seem vain. But next to Oliver he looked insignificant, shrunken—his presence vanished so quickly that when he said that he only had to pick up his things and was leaving (probably induced by the tension that had also decided to show up in the room, or perhaps by the way Oliver's name had slipped from my lips), I looked at him as though I was looking at a stranger. He was.

Oliver didn’t take his eyes off of him until he disappeared inside the elevator, and I couldn’t tell what I saw in them when he turned his attention back on me. It was neither discomfort nor spite. Weariness?

“I'm sorry I interrupted," he said.

Pain.

“You didn't interrupt anything.”

I wanted to ask him what he was doing here if only to let the conversation flow like the day before, but it was so obvious from the bags and paper cups he’d brought that it would only have made the situation even more embarrassing and silly.

“I didn't like how we said goodbye yesterday," he replied as though he had guessed the unasked question. “It occurred to me that—” He thought better of it. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept much. Then he gave me what he was holding. “I was told this place serves the best hot chocolates and croissants in town. I hope it's true because I had a hard time finding it. Take it quickly, it's almost cold.”

He turned and started walking away.

“Wait, Oliver…” I rushed out of the room after a few seconds of hesitation. He stopped in the middle of the hall with a resounding sigh that definitely confirmed his apathy. “Where are you going?”

“To my hotel, to pick up my things, and then to the train station, and then to London, to the airport, to wait for the arrival of the two most important people in my life.”

That had been a punch in every sense—a brutal clarification that only a madman would dare to impugn, but a punch after all.

“What time is your train?”

Oliver pondered for a moment, I assumed to weigh if it was preferable to lie and say, _Soon_, to get out of here and swallow this bitter pill as quickly as possible, or to stick to the truth, _I still have time but I don't feel like spending it with you anymore_, pushing the dagger deeper.

A man came out of his room and wished us a good day with the expected blasé manner, although he didn’t stop staring at us while he was waiting for the elevator. Oliver was dressed as Oliver used to, with his dapper coat over his shoulders and with those formal sweaters and pants that only he knew how to make look interesting. When I’d returned here the day before, I had curled up in bed with the green sweater he had given me, covering half my face with it to memorize that smell that I knew I had never forgotten and would surely never forget. Today, I stood in this corridor, dressed in a robe worn without any care and that barely hid my nakedness that still smelled of someone else’s sweat and sex, holding a cardboard tray with two cups of hot chocolate in one hand and a bag of croissants and who knew what else in the other.

Yes, the scene was ridiculous.

“At noon," Oliver said.

“Then don't go yet, Oliver. You didn't just come here to bring me this.”

“No, of course not. But I didn't expect to be welcomed by another man either—and I'm not blaming you, okay?” He pointed out right away. “You, of course, can do whatever you want with your life, Elio. You've always done. But I hope you at least understand that I'm feeling very uncomfortable right now.”

Another guest who didn’t bother to hide his curiosity about what was happening interrupted us. Oliver’s neck turned a deep red, and the blush rose all the way to his forehead. I had also noticed that the bathrobe belt had loosened.

“Go back inside, Elio.”

“There's nothing here you haven't seen before.”

“Elio—”

“Come in with me.”

“El—”

“_Please_.”

Fuck dignity. If I had to beg, I'd beg.

He agreed with something similar to a grunt, and closed the door behind him with care. I left the tray and the bag with the breakfast on the dresser I’d been sitting on before. Oliver walked around the room, examining without really wanting to examine. He briefly sat on the unmade bed but immediately changed his mind, so he approached one of the French windows overlooking the balcony from which _la Grande Roue_ and _le Tour Eiffel_ could be seen. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, looking at me like a teacher waiting for his student to confess his latest mischief.

I knew I needed to say something, but I didn't know what. Explain? Ask for forgiveness? It didn't make any sense. Yet his stony expression was causing me an anguish similar to that I had once associated with his red bathing suit. But I didn't want to stay away from him anymore; I realized it now as my chest ached painfully. 

“It seems that breakfasts are something intrinsic to our relationship," I finally said, trying for a carefree tone, like someone who is about to tell a trivial story, but instead I sounded dejected. “Every morning, during your stay with us, I woke up with the uncertainty of what that day would hold, and breakfast was the key moment to find out. If you greeted me, even if you didn't look in my direction, hope invaded me, and in my eyes you became the most amazing and extraordinary man whom I was dying to spend time with. On the contrary, if you didn't speak to me, all sorts of doubts would assail me. About me, about you. Had I done something wrong? Did you hate me? And if you did: why? I was just a shy, inexperienced boy. What could I’ve done to earn that kind of disdain? Insecurity led to irritation, and then all I could see in you was a rude usurper who had come into my life to take my space, to take over the attention of my parents and the guests, and to take advantage of the sympathy of my friends. Did I not deserve more than hostile glances? There were times when I hated you so much that I didn't want to see you again for the rest of the summer. I even wanted you to drown once because this way I wouldn't have to worry about where you were or who you were with or whether the next morning you'd want to dedicate a measly hello to me any longer.”

Oliver's eyes softened, I even thought I saw some guilt in his face. But I didn't want him to feel like this because of my untamed mental masturbation. The only one who ever behaved irrationally, then and now, was me.

“I never wanted to make you feel that way, Elio.”

“I know. It's not your fault that I'm like this: greedy, selfish.”

“I don't think you're any of those things. You’re impetuous with what you want, it’s true. The problem is that I don’t think you know what you want right now. The other night you said something that worried me a lot; I didn't want to ask you about it because you were very upset already, but somehow it makes sense to me now; it was absence that I felt with you in bed. You were giving me your body but nothing else. And that's what you seem to do with others too, you use sex as an escape route, you deceive yourself with a desire to distract you from all those things that really matter to you yet also hurt you. But life hurts, Elio, it does, and you have no choice but to accept it.”

What an overwhelming sense of dishonesty.

Oliver was so right that my skin was all itchy, as though he had peeled it off with his words, laying bare my very core. 

“Do you regret coming?” I asked in a shaky voice, and without specifying what I meant because I was not sure if I was looking for a concrete answer or a general admission. Did you regret coming to Paris? Did you regret having come here this morning? The truth was I didn’t know why I’d asked the question; I didn’t think I was ready for anything he could say.

“I don't know if I have an answer for that.”

It was the best and the worst thing he could’ve told me.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Yes.”

That incision went directly to my heart.

“And I know I have no right to be. But I am. That's the truth. I—” He took a deep breath. “You know? A part of me had always believed that, deep down, I was magnifying what had happened between us, that I’d fallen in love with an idea, with a lovely memory that was only becoming more naive with the passing of time, and I guess, having been so gobbled up by my own fears and lies, I had convinced myself of it. But honestly, it wasn't hostility you saw, Elio. When I woke up every morning I stayed still in bed, listening, and I didn't move from there until I heard you on the other side of the wall, even if it was just a shy sigh or a snore.” We both laughed at that, but the tears had already begun to flow down my cheeks. “New York was very difficult to assimilate, but with the other meetings I believed that we had finally moved on, and that we could continue with our lives maintaining a beautiful and simple friendship. But I guess there are things you can't forget so easily, and when I saw you on Monday, sitting there, surrounded by all those fans, looking at you with such admiration, devotion, and thrill… I understood everything. I understood them and I understood myself. Everything I told you yesterday is true. _Everything_. But life has also taught me to be cautious, and I'm not willing to give myself at any price. You need to find yourself again, Elio, and maybe then we can find each other again. But you're not gonna get through any of this if you keep pushing away those who really care about you.”

I couldn't stop crying, I couldn't do anything but cry and cry.

When I had asked him to come into the room with me I had only wanted to apologize even though I had no real reason to do so. But I hadn't expected this. I didn't expect him to tear my soul apart just like this. I hadn’t expected that in only two days he would’ve been able to see me clearer than I myself was able to see me, wondering day after day who that man was I saw reflected in the mirror, imitating every gesture I made with mockery, as though he were always two steps ahead of me.

Oliver rummaged inside his coat and took out a piece of paper and a pen and approached the dresser to write something. Then he gave it to me while I wiped away my tears, trying to regain some of my lost self-esteem. His face had become sombre again.

“It's my private number…” He was obviously willing to add something else, but instead he pursed his lips and went to the door.

I looked at the paper and the digits scribbled boldly in his handwriting. Then I realized that it wasn't a piece of paper but the envelope I had given him yesterday. I opened it hastily; the VIP passes were still there.

“No. No, no, no. Oliver.” He already had a hand on the doorknob. “Keep them.”

“I can't.”

“Oliver, please—”

“I can't," he repeated, choking, his voice breaking with what seemed to be a burst of grief. “Elio, it’s no longer just about me, I also have to think about them, about Sean and Sophie, and there are things that are just—”

His glassy eyes turned for a second towards the dresser. I followed them and saw the remains of the two consumed lines that G had prepared and the tiny bag of coke that he had left there in the rush. Oliver waved a hand before I had a chance to tell him that it wasn't what it looked like. But it didn't matter anymore; it was obvious that he’d made a decision. 

“Good luck on Sunday,” he said, and left.

The day had dawned sunny with a surprisingly crystalline sky, although the darkened horizon foreshadowed another turn of events. In the room, however, everything had started to cloud at the wrong time, like one of those sea storms capable of swallowing the beach. The wave of bitterness in his voice, along with his damaging observation, flooded me and pulled me down into a cold black ocean. How could things go so wrong so quickly? Perhaps he didn't, but I remembered perfectly well what he’d told me in New York, _Maybe we'll see each other someday when things are different_. I had felt so much hope at that moment. It didn't matter if it hadn’t happened there, in that hotel room, because we both had just realized that it would never be too late for us. We weren't one of those who needed to sit down and recall what it had been like in the past to bring the fire back to life because that flame would never be extinguished. And yet, I had managed to throw a bucket of ice water onto it.

I could feel the burning sour taste of bile on my palate and almost didn't make it to the bathroom before I threw up all over the porcelain tiles. I curled up in a corner by the toilet, hoping that this horrible feeling would soon pass, but my whole body was convulsing.

I lost track of time completely, but in spite of that state of semi-consciousness in which I was only partially awake to the reality and my mind wandered, I was able to hear the knocks on the door—soft at first until they became impatient at the lack of response. My phone rang, but it was lying somewhere in the room. More knocks on the door. I was called a few times. Then there was a moment of silence, until the firm knocks came back, and suddenly there were people inside. I heard Burton's voice and two others I couldn't identify. He sounded angry, but most of all, scared. _Get rid of it, get rid of it!_ He was saying again and again, and then, _What have you done, Elio?_ I was sure I replied that I’d done nothing that I was fine, but I was not able to hear my own voice so it was likely that I just stayed silent.

Burton spoke, over the phone it seemed, urging whomever to come here immediately. I'd never heard him so distraught. Eventually, I was lifted from the floor. _It's all right, it's all right_. It was Davis' voice. Oh, God, if Davis was here, this couldn't be good. They laid me down on the bed, but I didn't want to lie down. They insisted, forcing me to stay there. I fought them. Davis kept telling Burton to cancel all interviews. _Cancel? No, no cancelling_, I was protesting. _I'm fine. I'm fine_. Everyone repeated everything constantly, as though that was our way of stating that we were very serious in our pleadings.

_Cancel the interviews, cancel the interviews!_

_Don't cancel them, don't cancel them!_

Someone put a blanket over my shoulders. Victoria. I glanced around, alarmed. Jameela and even Carson were there too, along with people I imagined were part of the hotel staff.

How fucking embarrassing.

Davis, perhaps sensing my discomfort, asked them to leave us alone, thanking and assuring them that he would take care of everything from now on.

“I can do the interviews," I insisted. "I just felt unwell, that's all.”

“Did you take something?” Burton asked.

“No, I didn't take anything.”

“Don't lie. On the dresser there was—”

“I know what was on the dresser, but I didn't take anything, just a few drinks. Last night. That's all. I'm fine. I'm fine!”

They looked at me with masked prudence, like a public jury that is about to point a finger and yell, _Guilty!_

“Is it possible to cancel the interviews?” Davis asked Burton. I wanted to argue about it, but Davis wouldn't let me. This was _very_ serious.

“Of course we can cancel them, but doing so the same day, and only fifteen minutes before the first of them takes place, is going to give us a very bad reputation and will start all sorts of gossip that we don't need right now.”

Jameela sat next to me and embraced me with her arms, caressing my back with tenderness, like a mother trying to warm her sick child.

“No one’s going to cancel anything,” I stated, categorically.

I was able to convince them to let me take a shower; that would help me feel better for sure. Victoria and Jameela refused to leave the room, though. I presumed I had earned their distrust, but I was grateful for their stubbornness, it made me feel less alone.

“I don't want to be a pain in the ass, but… are you sure you're okay?” Victoria asked as I threw the towel aside and began to dress in front of them both. 

“I'll manage, don't worry.”

She came up to me and gave me something she had been holding in her hand for a while. It was the copy of the new Rolling Stone issue, with me on the cover. I took it with caution, afraid that it might crumble or vanish in my own hands. I touched it thoughtfully, running my fingertips over the laminated paper that smelled new and of something faintly chemical, and over my face, and the biggest headline of all, _Miss Indigo. Elio Perlman_.

It was so real.

_You'll know that you made it when you appear on the cover of Rolling Stone_, Fabi had joked more than once. How I wished he were here to celebrate this with me.

I felt a terrible urge to cry again because of joy and also of emptiness from the absence of all those who were everything to me. Oliver had been right. How could I deal with all of this if I didn't stop pushing away the people who truly cared about me?

Now I understood. Now I understood him.

I wasn't sure what they saw on my face but Victoria and Jameela rushed and hugged me tightly.

“We're here. Always. You know that, don’t you?” Jameela said.

“I know. I know…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the Rolling Stone interview [here!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277781/chapters/50051753):


	9. Eight

The interviews weren't as bad as everyone had anticipated. They had to be delayed, but Burton had made it all look like a last-minute setback, even ruling out the usual celebrity-associated eccentricity. Then it had been in my hand to make them forget the unwelcome waste of time. _Use your usual charm_, Burton had told me. The outcome had been satisfactory; at least, in my opinion, not so much in Burton's. Sitting in the car that took us directly to _La Cigale_ for a new day of rehearsals, he'd put the phone right under my nose and said, _See? It's fuming_.

I didn't understand the fuss. It had happened at the radio station, they’d asked a personal question and I’d answered it with total honesty. Was it a surprise at this point? I’d never hidden my relationship with Fabi; that I was attracted to men was neither a novelty nor a secret. _But there are rumours that you’ve also had relationships with women_, they had said in a seemingly naive way.

Rumours.

I had laughed a little bit at that.

“Yeah, I don't have a problem with whatever I'm going to find when I put my hand inside someone's pants.”

Their faces had paled to the colour of yellowed ivory before blushing violently.

We’d been live on air.

That had prompted me to expand on the subject with a deeper and more educated discourse, reaffirming my belief that all human beings were, in fact, bisexual, and that we all feel a boundless curiosity as well as possessing the sexual potential to do what we want with our bodies. But we were trapped by terrified cultures that instilled in us, from a very young age, the urge to follow a specific path even if it had nothing to do with ourselves.

Judging by the way Burton frowned it was to be assumed that my explanations hadn’t improved the situation at all.

“If you don't want me to answer things like these, you could, as my manager, make sure I'm not asked these kind of questions in the first place.”

But Burton didn't like to limit the freedom of journalists—not out of principle but because they normally didn’t hold themselves back when it came to exposing these restrictions to their work, and Burton couldn’t stand the idea of breeding a bad name.

I thought he needed to relax.

But the press was an ally (according to him) and (again, according to him) they seemed to have a soft spot for me, so we had to make the most of it. I wasn't necessarily against that, but in the same way that they had the independence to ask whatever they wanted, I also wanted to have the option to answer whatever I wanted however I wanted—especially because in this case it was an aspect of my life that I wasn't ashamed of at all.

“It has to do with the image you display," Burton had said. “The music is very important, of course, and nobody doubts your quality as a composer, Elio, but your _appearance_ also sells records and magazines, and you have to be accessible to the imagery of your fans. Do you think they don't masturbate looking at the posters that stick on their walls?”

“Burton… that's not like you.”

“Inappropriate, maybe, but true, after all.”

“And what's the problem then? Am I not enlarging the target for sexual fantasies?”

At least this made him keep his mouth shut.

In any case, he didn't leave me alone all day long after the radio interview, neither during the encounters with the written press nor when I stopped to greet some fans because, no matter where, they were always there, waiting patiently with their Rolling Stone copy ready to be graced with a scrawl and a dedication. Burton had become my shadow even during rehearsals, remaining motionless on one side of the stage, like a ghost lurking in the shadows. And yet he didn’t mention the morning incident. I wasn't sure whether to worry or to be grateful.

“Have you talked to Maverick?” I asked him on our way back to the hotel.

“Davis was there. If Dominos Records doesn't want to give it more importance, then Maverick can survive without knowing about it.”

“That's bold; they're the ones paying you.”

“Maverick has other things to worry about right now, and I'm the one who's here with you, in Europe, in Paris, in _this_ car… the rehearsal went well, you showed up for the interviews as planned, even if you're unable to hold that tongue of yours, and the Rolling Stone issue is out there with apparent success. Everything’s okay. We can move on.”

“I didn't take anything.”

“I believe you.”

Well, that was easy.

“But you sounded upset.”

“You frightened me.” His distressed tone caught me off guard. “I know we have a complicated relationship, Elio, but the last thing I want is to have to force hotel employees to open your room to find you on the floor with no pulse and foaming at the mouth. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“Who?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I'm sure it was just an anxiety attack.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He nodded and we both accepted this improvised truce, crossing the hotel's lobby without saying another word.

I had tried to avoid thinking about it, although the obvious effort that all of them had made to act as though they hadn’t broken into my room that morning had only made me feel fully aware of what they’d had to witness. However, and against all odds, Oliver hadn’t crossed my mind for most of the day.

Until I walked into the room.

Everything looked tidy now, the bed was perfectly made, the smell of perfumed disinfectant in the air, and there was no trace of either the coke or the breakfast that Oliver had brought. All that remained was his note, the envelope I’d given him and that he’d given me back with his private number. I took it and settled into an armchair next to one of the French windows. I sat there for a long time, thinking about what I should do, and whether there really was any way to fix this. But how? What was there to fix? I still wasn't sure what had really happened. I was even having a hard time believing that we’d seen each other again, and that we’d slept together, and that we’d had such a gratifying evening only yesterday. What had gone wrong?

Me. Obviously.

I looked at the clock on one of the bedside tables, it was almost eight in the evening, and it had already been dark for a long time. I imagined him in his apartment in Shepherd's Bush. Would it have two or three bedrooms? Surely two, the rent would be cheaper for someone who spent most of his time alone, and the kids would have no problem sleeping in the same room during the few days they spent with him. Sean and Sophie would be sitting in the living room now, on the carpet, watching TV—tired after the long flight, but still happy to see their dad who was watching them lovingly from the kitchen, through the small window that connected both spaces. He was cooking something he knew they loved, and then the three of them would have dinner around the coffee table like a picnic. Oliver was a responsible father, but he also knew how to grant his kids certain whims. Sean would tell him about the last song he’d been practicing, and Sophie would show him the crazy outfit she had designed for one of her dolls. They'd talk, they'd joke, they'd laugh and they’d call their mum to tell her that they had arrived safely. And later Oliver would accompany them to their bedroom and stay with them until sleep took over.

I smiled.

I remembered how hesitant he had shown himself about his role as a dad in New York, but I had no doubt that Oliver was a wonderful father.

I left the envelope on the bedside table and got into bed. I had no intention of sleeping yet, just resting a little before going down to the hotel restaurant and having dinner. Maybe it was a good time to think about me, to let myself be rocked by the sweetness of the past and shaken by the reality of this present, and thus find a way to stop feeling all this loneliness that many wouldn’t even understand. When I opened my eyes, though, the light of a new day was already entering through the two windows. I sat up abruptly on the bed. I was still wearing the clothes of the previous day. I checked the time, at least it was still early and I didn't have to fear another dramatic entry from Burton. But I had several unanswered calls on the phone, two from Victoria, one from Jameela and one from Fabi.

Oh, Fabi.

It's been four days since we last spoke. I was still not used to this new deal we had and the periods of raucous silence. We used to chat and see each other so often, even before we became an official couple, that now I felt the same as addicts when they stop using drugs overnight. My withdrawal had begun a year ago, when I had decided to start that incomprehensible relationship with Bernard—although, now that I was thinking about it, maybe it wasn't the beginning of a recovery but of a relapse? I was horrified by the idea of approaching Fabi and having that sickly need to have him with me again at all costs, knowing that it was impossible. But at the same time I couldn't imagine my life without him, because like with Oliver, we had been friends long before we’d been lovers. It wasn't Fabi's fault that I was a horrible boyfriend.

I needed a shower to get rid of this stale sweaty smell and the thoughts that fed back to each other in such a way that I ended up losing control over them.

At the reception no one was able to mask their astonishment at finding me there before anyone else. I was ready for a new round of rehearsals. I was ready to prove I was the professional everyone expected me to be. I was ready to face my mistakes and my flaws, even if it took me a long time because—yes, there were a lot.

The rehearsals went well, my voice sounded better, and we were able to play the whole set we were going to perform on Sunday. Even Burton was calmer and managed to control his watchdog attitude. But all my doubts, fears, insecurities and other unpleasant feelings were popping up every time I entered my room. I was unable to reconcile that sense of emptiness that hit me like a freight train when I was left alone. So I went down to the bar to distract myself and sat at the piano. It was mid-afternoon, so the place was practically empty. I imagined that most people were already confined to their homes, with their families, to celebrate _le Réveillon de Noël_.

I played for a while—nothing popular, just the notes that came to my head and were automatically reproduced by my fingers. I only stopped when one of the waiters approached me with a Gin Tonic.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but that gentleman over there wants to invite you.”

It was G. He was sitting in a little corner, at the back. He lifted his drink slightly to say, _Hi_. I took mine and walked over to his table as he kindly asked me to accompany him.

“I didn't want to bother you, but I also thought it was unfair that we were taking advantage of such a talent for free," he said.

“Who? You and the other three people here?”

“And the poor waiters, of course.”

“I see you've already bought the presents for your daughter.”

On the table, next to his coat, were several bags with packages wrapped in different coloured paper.

“Yeah…” His attitude changed; the confidence from the beginning disappeared to be replaced by hesitation. “This may sound paradoxical to you, but I've been feeling very strange since yesterday. I've been thinking about—I thought I'd get in touch with you and apologize in case I caused any problems. But then I said to myself, _Shouldn't you keep those apologies for your wife?_ I spent the whole afternoon looking for a beautiful and expensive necklace for her, as if that would solve anything.” He laughed fretfully. “I don't know why I'm telling you this. This morning I heard you on the radio; my French isn't very good, but… I'm fascinated by your frankness, you show yourself to the world as you are, without any fear. It's admirable.”

“Don't be fooled, I only show the good things.”

G laughed again, this time with honestly.

“I'm not going to put you in an embarrassing situation and ask for advice. I'm old enough to know what I'm doing and what I should actually do. I just—”

He shrugged and said nothing more. I thanked him for the Gin Tonic, and wished him a good night before I got up and left.

My eyes rested on the envelope every time I walked around the room. The desire was tremendously powerful, but I did my best to hold myself back. Sometimes I’d check my phone with that contained hope that induces you to expect the unexpected: to open it and find a missing call from him. But that never happened. This time I had earned his indifference, and it was his family who needed his attention, not an ungrateful ex-lover.

I sat in the middle of the bed with the phone in one hand and the envelope in the other. The fact that he didn't have time to call me, however, didn't mean I couldn't do it. He had given me his private number for some reason, after all, hadn't he? But surely not to bother him at the first change of heart, especially during the time he had with his kids. What was I going to tell him, anyway? I studied the digital numbers on the phone’s narrow screen that I had typed unconsciously. My thumb was hovering over the call button, I just had to press it.

I flipped the phone shut.

Don't bother him. He’s busy being a family man. Maybe he went out with the kids to visit a Christmas market. Or maybe they were at home baking gingerbread cookies for Santa. Oliver was Jewish, but Charlotte wasn't, so I was a bit lost regarding their traditions. In any case, the best thing I could do was to leave him alone.

I reopened the flip cover.

The number was still there, tempting me with its vivid green colour.

I closed the flip cover.

I opened the flip cover.

I pressed the call button.

What was I doing?

I closed the flip cover again before it started ringing.

Then I let myself fall back on the soft mattress, holding the phone against my chest. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

I checked the clock, it was around 9:00 p.m., 3:00 p.m. in New York. I looked through my contacts, even though I knew this number by heart.

“_Ça, alors_! Here he is, the Rolling Stone boy!”

The way I felt every time I heard his voice, even over the phone, was incredible. When he wasn't with me and I needed to talk to someone, just with his always enthusiastic, _Allô!_ was he able to put me in a good mood. That was Fabi. It was evident that he was not alone, though; some whistles and claps were heard behind him.

“Where are you?”

“Jaime invited us to some kind of cookie baking party—the hell I know. Did you know there's a Painting Party where you invite people to help you paint your house? Oh, _Americains_.”

The heated discussion about the right amount of flour needed was suddenly silenced, so I pictured Fabi hiding in an adjoining room to talk calmly.

“What kind of a shitty party is that?” I said.

“That's what I thought, but it’s just a way to spend time with our friends, in the end. It's fun.”

“I thought you'd be preparing for the trip.”

“The plane doesn't leave for six hours; I still have time. I can’t wait to get there…”

It was a relief to hear that. Coming to France had always been a cause of remembering the bad times Fabi had lived with his family, and with whom he’d had no contact for years. When he set foot outside the plane, he usually forgot all about it, but it was a trip that always made him anxious.

“And I can’t wait for you to get here,” I said.

I knew he was smiling—his beautiful smile. I was smiling too.

“How's everything going over there?” He asked.

I hadn’t planned the groan—too dissonant and revealing for my, _Everything’s okay_, to sound convincing, but it was impossible to deceive Fabi.

“Elio…"

“I'm just tired, you know better than anyone how it is: rehearsals, smile, interviews, smile, fans, smile, more rehearsals… I just want to get on stage and play for real.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Yeah… I'm not in good shape, Fabi, and it has to be perfect.”

“It’ll be perfect even if it's not perfect, because that spontaneity is what makes it unique, and fans love to know that the person they admire it's also human. Just let yourself go, like you've always done.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Well, for the moment, be on the cover of the world's best-selling music magazine.”

“Even if it wasn't your doing this time, I’m there because of you.”

“Oh, _mon beau_, you don't need to make me feel good. You look great in the pictures, like a real star. And the interview; you never cease to amaze me… you can be so pretentious sometimes.”

We both burst out laughing, but there was a lot of noise in the background. Fabi was being called back to the kitchen, and from the hysteria that reached this side of the pond it seemed like a matter of life and death.

“Go, before they ruin the cookies.”

“I'm French, bread is my thing,” he said, exaggerating his already strong accent. “Okay, I'll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The silence after hanging up was devastating.

I got into the shower with the hope of clearing my mind and be able to spend a quiet night for once—eat something, maybe, and do nothing but rest. So I lay in bed with the bathrobe on, chased by that invisible but pleasant shampoo smell, and started channel surfing. Almost everything were Christmas specials that couldn't catch my attention for more than two minutes. But on one of the channels they were showing Mary Poppins, a dubbed French version. Could there be a better plan?

I was totally immersed in the story I’d seen hundreds of times when Jameela showed up there. She looked gorgeous, wearing her Afro hair naturally, and some leather pants and a plain black t-shirt. She didn't need more to stand out from everyone. I asked her if she was going out. She was, they had to take advantage of Christmas festivities. A Muslim? She adjusted her belt, for her it was just an excuse to party.

“Would you like to come?”

She saw the refusal on my face immediately.

“I was thinking about ordering a sandwich and finishing watching Mary Poppins—I know, I know you're envying me deeply right now, but I'm sorry, there's no room in bed for anyone else, and I don't want to waste your time.”

“I've got plenty of time. Victoria's in the shower and I told her I was going to take out some money. She doesn't know I'm here. She kept telling me, _Leave him alone, don't bother him_. But honestly, Elio, I can't see you like this and do nothing about it.”

“I'm fine, Ela, don't worry.”

She didn't listen; she led me to the bed where we sat.

“I know that you’ve gone through a lot lately, we all know because somehow we’ve lived it with you. And it’s okay if you don’t feel well—we're human, we have feelings, and things don't always work out the way we'd like them to. But… I have the feeling that you're not aware of how lucky you are, Elio.”

She stopped for a second and glanced around. She seemed nervous.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I shook my head. “You know I try not to smoke too much.”

“Right… look, I don't want to lecture you, but I feel I have to tell you this.” She tried to put a strand of hair behind her ear, but it immediately returned to its original position. “I grew up in a family with two brothers, two boys who always got all the attention and all the praise. So, from a very young age, I developed some kind of urgency to prove to others that I could be useful too. You don't know how hard it is to be in a classroom surrounded by white boys and girls, with a different culture than yours, and who always seem to be looking at you like you owe them something. That made me feel like I had to show them that, not only was I no different but that I could be just as good as them. I got the best grades in the class, my teachers were impressed with my work and they thought it was important that I enhanced that musical interest that I had already begun to show from an early age. They let my parents know on numerous occasions. But you know what I was used to be told at home? For them I was just wasting my time… and theirs. They never cared. According to them, what I had to do was stop that nonsense, find a good man, get married and start a family. That was all that was expected of me. No good grades, no career, no matter which one… nothing.”

Jameela paused and I held her hand.

“I was so sick of not being valued by my own family, that one day I tried to escape. But my father found me. I was beaten so badly that I suffered some hearing loss," she said, pointing to her left ear. “But that didn't stop me. With my few savings I bought a second-hand electric piano, and played all the time. One day my father was banging my door so hard that he broke it with his fist. I didn’t think twice and I ran away again. I haven't heard from them since then. And at first I felt good, I felt free… until I realized that I had nothing and that I was really alone. I went back and forth, trying to find a place to live and a job. But it's not easy when you're treated like a second-class citizen. In a moment of despair, I even came to consider prostitution. I worked in a lot of small jobs, mostly poorly paid, but I never gave up my passion for music. It was the only thing that made me feel good, even playing in the streets for complete strangers who didn't care.”

I was speechless, astonished.

“And then one day an idiot approached me… at first I thought he was offering me money for sex.” We both laughed as tears started to roll down our cheeks. “I never told you, but I hadn't been able to pay the rent for several months and they were about to throw me out. You changed my life, Elio. And maybe I lost a family, the one you can’t choose, but I won a new one. However, you have _both_… parents who love you and have always been supportive, and friends who would do everything for you because they know that you’d do the same for them… don't be an idiot, Elio, and don’t lose it.”

We hugged and cried together.

I was so grateful for this. Sometimes you needed someone to grab you by the shoulders and force you to wake up from that nightmare in which you’re trapped—a blow that Jameela had known how to deal in the sweetest and saddest way. And she was right, as was Oliver. I was a fortunate man for many reasons, including those that put me in the spotlight of the most backward society. I’d had to overcome obstacles that most people wouldn’t even consider, and yet, I could say I’d been very lucky.

“Look at you, all your make-up has come off,” I told her when we pulled apart, trying to wipe the black mascara smears from under her eyes. “Fucking hell, I’ve done nothing but cry for months.”

“Crying isn't a bad thing, Elio, but you don't have to do it alone.”

Victoria showed up soon after, she’d been sure she'd find Jameela here. The two of them tried to convince me to go out with them and distract myself, but I had something important to do. _Watch Mary Poppins?_ Mary Poppins could wait with its saccharine songs for another time.

I wanted it to be a surprise, so I didn’t stop thanking the man who let me into the building without having to use the entryphone. She had barely opened the door of the apartment and the two of us had already merged into an urgent and moving embrace.

_Maman_.

I had shed so many tears these past days, and weeks, and months, but I had also felt the warmth of the hugs of the people I loved most, Fabi, Marzia, Victoria, Jameela… Oliver. And now her. How good it felt. It was a wave of comfort and gentleness that swept the melancholy aside like a gale carrying leaves far away. I was definitely a lucky man.

She beckoned me inside. Everything still looked like the last time I’d been here. It was a typical old Parisian apartment with a small kitchen, stucco rosettes, a parquet floor that creaked just by looking at it, and the half-peeling wallpaper on the walls. But it was a refuge. Our refuge. The apartment had belonged to my mother's family for several generations, and she had kept it during her student years when she had shared it with others. I had spent great periods of time here as a child as well as a teenager. There wasn't much decoration or furniture, yet it looked cosy and intimate.

“_Tu arrives au bon moment_,” said my mother. “I was about to go out.”

“Really? I don't want to ruin your plans.”

“Oh, _mon amour_." She shook her head and led me to the kitchen where there was barely room to move. “Now at least I have a good excuse to cancel.”

She phoned to warn of her absence, it was a brief conversation, and then she opened a bottle of wine and served two glasses. I watched her closely. She hadn't lost an ounce of that genuine elegance that exuded her with every gesture. Her hair was shorter than I had been accustomed to, I had noticed it even though she had it tied up in a low bun, but she was still one of the most beautiful women I knew.

“I wanted to call you," she said. “But you never answer our calls, and knowing that you were here, I wasn't sure I was ready for another cold-shouldering.”

She had used the plural, maybe it was just out of habit, but I almost had the impulse to take a look around, even though I knew that there was no one else here with us.

“I'm so sorry, _maman_… I just—”

She placed a warm hand on my cheek and smiled. I could almost hear her hissing kindly, as she used to do when I was little and upset about something, and she'd take me in her arms, letting me know that she was there and everything would be fine. Her eyes shone with an emotion hard to hide. I didn't want to cry again, but above all, I didn't want to see her cry.

“Have you had dinner?” She asked.

“No…”

“Let's make something then. What would you like?”

“Anything's fine.”

“Some _tortelli_ like Mafalda used to make?

We got down to work right away and the connection between the two of us was absolute. It wasn't the first time we locked ourselves in this same kitchen, while out there it was pouring, and didn’t let dad, who always had an opinion on everything we did, come in and pester us. _I feel alone_, he used to say. And we’d laughed at him because we were making one of his many favourite dishes.

“Have you talked to him?” I asked without taking my eyes off the boiling water.

“I talk to him every day. Except that we live on different continents now, nothing has really changed.”

“I don't understand it then, _maman_…”

She poured more wine.

“I don't understand it either, but sometimes things just happen, Elio. You don't stop loving people, but there comes a time when you need space for yourself to reconsider if what you have is enough or if there’s something else you can aspire to. We mimic the people around us so much that we forget that we are also independent beings, and that we can be alone, make our own choices and be good. I miss him more than you probably imagine, but I'm also happy here.”

I didn't want anything else for her or for him, and I knew she wasn't lying when she said she was satisfied with the life she was now leading on her own. I saw it in her eyes; the serenity with which she always used to face everything. Not even in the hardest moments did she lose her calm.

We sat down to dinner in the living room, at the brazier table that was older than the two of us put together. When I was little I liked to hide under it, between the folds of the tablecloth, with a candle and a book, as though I was camping. Once I got so distracted that I almost set the apartment on fire. I didn't bend down to check, but I was sure the black mark was still there.

The _tortelli_ were wonderful, but about half through dinner I started to feel a knot in my stomach. I didn't want to leave without asking her about B. and the villa, but I couldn't find a way to bring up the subject without breaking this comforting atmosphere we had created between us, with our light conversation, the candles (this time on the table) and the melodies coming from one of dad's old classical music vinyls.

“You can ask,” she said.

How could I be so foolish to doubt her cunning?

“Okay… have you thought about what you're going to do?”

“I think about it all the time, Elio, all the time… Agnès, do you remember her?”

Yes, of course I remembered Agnès, a childhood friend of hers who had always insisted that I call her _tante Agnès_.

“One day she introduced me to an architect, an old friend of her husband,” she continued. “I told him what had happened and all the doubts we had. We've talked at length about it a few times later.”

“Wait a second… how many times?”

“Elio…” She laughed coyly, I even thought I saw a hint of blush on her cheeks as she brought the glass of wine to her lips.

“What? What's his name? Do you see him often?”

“He's a _friend…_ but he visited the villa and says he can do a restoration project for us. It won’t look the same, that’s impossible, but maybe a new house could open the door to new memories. Just the thought of abandoning it or selling it breaks my heart, and I’m sure yours, too. And your father's.”

“We have lived so many things there…”

She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight.

We moved to the velvety, faded green couch after dinner. I lay down, resting my head in her lap, letting her brush my hair with her fingers as we watched one of those variety shows, laughing at all the bad sketches and humming the songs of the bands that had long since ceased to interest anyone. We had done this so many times in the past…

“I'm so glad you came,” she said.

“You're just saying that because I got you out of that dinner.”

She tugged one of my curls.

“_Ow_!”

“You deserved that.”

“No need! I'm glad I came too… I missed you so much. _God_, you have no idea. Will you come on Sunday?”

“Your doubt offends me. And I'm also looking forward to seeing Marzia and Fabi.”

“Do you know who else was about to come?”

“Who?”

“Oliver.”

There was a moment of silence. I was aware that many questions were going through her head right now, but knowing her as I did, I also knew that she’d only choose one to ask.

“And why isn’t he coming anymore?”

“Because I'm an idiot, _maman_. He opened his heart to me and I just treated him like I've been treating everyone else, as if he were just another notch on the bedpost.”

She said nothing for some endless seconds during which I considered my own words. Suddenly, I was mortified by the thought of Oliver thinking that I had used him, that he had been a convenience, that it could’ve been anyone else, just as it had happened the next day. If only he knew that it would never be like this, that there would never be anyone like him, that there would never be anyone able to make me feel all this torrent of emotions that threatened to consume me from the inside until there was nothing left but ashes.

“Where’s Charlotte?” She asked.

“They're divorced.”

“Oh… I had no idea.”

“They get along well. At least that's what he told me. Oliver lives in London now and works at the Royal Holloway. He found out I'd be here with the band and showed up at the album signing. Initially just to say hello, but you know, one thing leads to the other…” I couldn't see her, but I knew she wouldn't even blink at my shamelessness. “I told him about the villa and Mafalda. He was very affected by the news.”

There was silence again, then she spoke softly, “Oliver was always very special, wasn't he?”

I sat up, exhaling noisily.

“I guess so… fuck, I don't know what to do, _maman_.”

She waited, I supposed with the expectation that I would turn to look at her, but I didn’t dare.

“Look at me.”

I quickly thought of a way to refuse; her penetrating gaze had always intimidated me because I had the feeling that she’d be able to x-ray my soul with a simple glance. But I took courage and turned to her.

“_Mon amour_…” she said. “I think you do, it's just that you're scared of losing it again.” She took my hand. “But in life, if you don't risk anything, you risk everything, Elio.”

I was aware that she wasn't just talking about me, she was talking about herself and my dad. She was probably even talking about Fabi and also Oliver. And she was right. We grow up making decisions, some simpler and others that force us to venture into swampy territories. I knew this very well because I had passed these crossroads on many occasions, including that summer of 1983 when I had irreversibly fallen in love for the first time, without realizing it.

When I returned to the hotel it was very late, but I didn't think twice when I picked up the room’s phone. With each ring I became more tense, until Burton's sleepy voice scraped the earpiece.

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“Did something happen?” He sounded alarmed now.

“No, but I need to ask you a favour—and before you complain, I want you to understand that I’m asking you this because I want to earn your trust again. Don't doubt that I could do this on my own without telling you anything at all.”

He waited for a moment.

“What is it?”

“I need you to get me a train ticket to London.”

“London? And what the fuck will you do in London?”

“That's my business. It will only be tomorrow, I’ll come back on Saturday, just in time for rehearsals, and I promise you that it will be the best soundcheck you’ve ever heard.”

Burton took so long to answer that I thought the line had been cut, but finally he said, “Okay…”

An unexpected shiver ran all over my body in a mixture of euphoria and panic. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but at least I felt that after more than a year of lethargy I was doing something.


	10. Nine

Two hours and seventeen minutes.

That was the length of the trip from Paris to London on the Eurostar. Burton had had trouble getting a ticket because the early morning trains were fully booked. Who the hell would want to travel so early on Christmas Day? Apparently me and seven hundred others. But Burton had finally successfully bought a ticket on one of the trains that arrived in London just for lunchtime.

I was nervous. No. Nervous wasn’t even close. Nervous was a generic and exiguous word unable to describe this feeling of great expectation and absolute dread. I had no plan and no idea what I was going to do once I arrived in London. I’d called Oliver before I got on the train, it was the appropriate thing to do, but he hadn't picked up. It was okay. He was probably busy; maybe he had left his phone somewhere or just hadn't heard it. Oliver could be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a spiteful person.

At least that's what I hoped.

I could only see an impenetrable black veil through the window. We’d been inside the tunnel for about ten minutes, which meant I didn't have much to distract myself with. I could’ve brought a book or even the notebook Fabi had given me, but I had only taken the backpack and a clean change of clothes. A habit strongly inculcated by my maternal grandmother, who had always insisted that everyone should leave the house wearing scrupulously clean underwear for whatever might happen. A wise advice, although I was convinced that my idea of, _What might happen_, didn't come close to hers. Not at all.

Unlike me, the rest of the passengers did seem to know what to do with their time. They read books or newspapers, they wrote on their laptops or notebooks, they slept leaning against the window or the shoulder of their seatmate whom they had just met and who withstood the invasion of their personal space with fortitude. It was a matter of camaraderie, especially on Christmas Day. Certainly, many of them travelled to reunite with their families if only for a day. They were easy to distinguish by their bright smiles, but among all of them there was a girl, with short dark hair, sitting on the other side of the aisle. I had already caught her looking in my direction furtively on a few occasions, but whenever our gazes met she’d turn around, pretending nothing had happened. At one point, I stared at her, patiently waiting. When, after a minute or two, she turned discreetly and realized that I was still watching her, she gasped and hid behind the backrest for the rest of the trip.

Before entering the tunnel, the day had presented itself with a blue sky only sprinkled by the patchwork of clouds whose only purpose was to remind us that, despite the bright sun, it was winter. But London was still London, cloudy and rainy, and with a style that dignified its sobriety—heavy, arrogant and proud. At the train station, passengers quickly forgot their temporary travel companions and ran to meet their loved ones who welcomed them with open arms.

I made my way to the exit alone, dodging the turmoil of people who ran into each other, struggling with their suitcases. And despite the indifference of those around me, I couldn't help feeling like I was being watched. I stopped dead in my tracks after walking a few yards, and turned abruptly, bumping into the girl I had seen on the train. She started to apologize in a succession of, _I’m sorry_, that she spat out without giving herself a moment to breathe. I told her she didn't have to apologize since it was me who had stood in her way. She bent her head and pulled the Rolling Stone magazine from among the books she carried. She told me that on the train she had only tried to make sure that it was really me and not some sort of doppelganger. She apologized again for the indiscretion, assuring me that when I had caught her, she had wanted to die of embarrassment. _Don’t worry about it_, I said and signed the magazine for her. The happy face with which she said goodbye had at least made the whole incident worthwhile.

Despite the interesting urban adventure, I felt relieved to sit in a taxi, away from the hubbub, away from the cries of joy and away from the prying eyes. I asked the cabbie to take me to Holland Park and opened my cell phone to check my messages. I almost dropped the phone between my feet; I even might have let an exclamation slip because the taxi driver turned to ask me if I was okay.

I had an unanswered call from Oliver.

What should I do now? Call him again? Wait? Or was it time to find out if he’d called me back just out of good manners or because seeing that I had called he couldn't resist doing the same?

Why did my brain have to work like this?

Call him and get it over with. Damn it!

But what if he’d called me to tell me that this was not the right time to talk and that he needed space to think? Think about what? What the hell was I doing in London then?

I'd eat first and plan later. Maybe with a full stomach I’d be able to rationalize this situation much better, as if rational was a word to find easily in my personal dictionary.

I went for a walk, letting myself get soaked by the humid environment. Perhaps this was what I needed, some fresh air to clear my mind after a two hour trip, part of which under the sea. Perhaps what I needed was to make sure I was walking on firm ground again.

And it helped a little.

I started to feel hungry an hour later, and the stupid anguish I had experienced in the taxi dissipated. Fortunately, one of the restaurants we used to visit when we had lived here was open. It had barely changed and the staff remained the same. They recognized me immediately, not only for who I was today but especially for who I’d been then. I was treated with the usual kindness and warmth even though things were obviously very different now. I never lost sight of my cell phone, but at least the waiters’ lively conversation made me forget the entangled present, and remember a recent past in which the uncertainty of what might happen in the future had been much more exciting than stressful, and in which plans hadn’t existed—we’d only tried to live an experience that we knew would never happen again.

I approached the neighbourhood where we had lived after lunch. It was a quiet street where the typical narrow London townhouses lined up one after the other with their brownstone stoops and wrought-iron railings leading to doors flanked by wooden columns. The one we had rented was at the end of the street and was one of the smallest. The gate was ajar but no one seemed to be inside. I crossed it ignoring the fact that I was invading someone else’s privacy, and studied the façade. The lintel was still as worn as it had been then, the black door showed that time hadn’t been indulgent with it, and the reddish brick looked even more boring and dull in this cold light. But how many times had I sat in the bay window with the guitar on my lap? Some songs had transformed completely here.

I heard a fake cough behind me and turned to meet a young man in his mid/late twenties, maybe early thirties. I wasn't very good at guessing people's ages. He had one hand on the iron fence, but it was obvious he didn't dare cross it with a stranger standing on his property.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“I'm sorry… do you live here?”

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, my name’s Elio Perlman; I'm very sorry to show up like this,” I said and approached him to shake his hand. “I hope I don’t look like a creep, I was just passing by and… I lived in this house for a few months, four years ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“It's not the most fancy in the area, right? But it's a nice neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Was it during the recording of the first album?”

I looked at him in astonishment, especially because of the equanimity with which he had spoken, as though he had just asked me if the sun had come up that morning. He laughed then, warily.

“I'm sorry, I hope now I don't sound like the creep. I thought it was you when you turned around, but as soon as you said your name, I knew I was right.”

“I see… I'm not really used to this yet. But yes, it was during the recording of that album.”

“It's a good album. In fact, I think the London influence is clear in some songs.”

I noticed then the heavy bag he was carrying that he shifted from one hand to the other.

“Thank you. But seriously, I don't want to bother you,” I said.

“Are you kidding me? It’s not as if I arrive every day with a bag full of Tupperware with the leftover food from my parents' to a famous rock star on my doorstep.”

“I'm just a musician.”

“Well, I recognized you. Do you… do you want to come in and check if it still looks the same?”

Strange as it might seem, I was about to accept his proposal when my phone started ringing. In other circumstances, I probably would’ve ignored it, but _God_, how glad I was that I didn't.

“I'm so sorry…?”

“Alan.”

“_Alan_, it's been a pleasure meeting you, but I have to answer this call.”

“It's okay. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, too,” he said on his way to the door.

I said goodbye to him, already walking up the street.

“Hey.” I exhaled as soon as I picked up the phone and glued it to my ear—almost breathless, as though I had just run a marathon.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Oliver chuckled.

“Hi.” At least he didn't seem upset. “I saw your call and tried to return it, but the voicemail came on.”

“Yeah, there was no signal on the train.”

“Train? Are you going somewhere?”

It was time to choose between making him guess or be practical. Better to be practical.

“I'm in London.”

For a while now I had begun to hate talking on the phone. Moreover, this animosity (which ran the risk of becoming a phobia) had probably begun to germinate the evening Oliver had called to tell us he was getting married. It also didn't help that in the last couple of years, the phone ringing had been synonymous of bad news. It was even a problem if all you wanted was to have a simple conversation with someone because you never really knew what was going on in the other person's head; you couldn't look them in the face and deduce if there was sincerity in their words or not. Then there were the silences, like in this case, which lasted for too long, making the uncertainty as heavy as it was unbearable. Yes, I just decided, at this very moment, that I hated talking on the phone, and yet I couldn't stop screaming in my head, _Don't hang up, Oliver, please, don't hang up_.

“London?”

“Yeah. _Fuck_… Oliver, I don't know what I'm doing, but I didn't like the way we said goodbye either—although, I have to say that I didn’t bring any breakfast and I don't know what else to offer you because I'm not particularly fond of British food. But we can sit and talk without eating, can't we?”

Again, there was no immediate response. Again, I wished I could look through a small hole and read the expression hidden behind the hand with which I was certain he was rubbing his forehead ceaselessly.

“Jesus, Elio… you're completely crazy.”

“Like that's something new.”

Oliver laughed. That was a good sign, at least.

“No, I guess it's not.”

“Listen, I know I came without warning, if you can't meet or if you don't have time or just don't want to, I get it, okay? I don't blame you. I will go for a walk, remember old times, and tomorrow I’ll return to Paris pretending that none of this ever happened, and—”

“Elio.”

“_What_?” The question came out almost like a cry.

“Where are you?”

It looked like he also preferred to be pragmatic rather than cruel.

I stopped on the sidewalk and looked up.

“Near the Royal Crescent Gardens.”

“All right… look, I was going out with the kids right now, but there's a pizzeria on the corner next to Shepherd's Bush Empire, I'm sure a music star like you knows where that is. I'll see you there at seven.”

Hours pass so slowly when you wait impatiently for something. I had made the most of the few months that I had lived in London, to the point of feeling as though I had resided in this city all my life. But I didn't know what to do to kill time today. The fact that practically everything was closed didn't help either. I kept lifting the sleeve of my shearling coat and looking at my wrist, even though I wasn't wearing a watch.

I had no trouble finding the pizzeria, it was one of the few places that were open in the area and looked comfortable, familiar. I thought about waiting for him inside, but if I ordered something and he was late, then I’d have to ask for another drink, and right now the least I wanted was to have a soda, and to welcome him tipsy was not the smartest idea. So I decided to wait for him outside, smoking a cigarette that I had bummed off a man who had stared at me suspiciously and, frowning, had pointed a finger, saying, _Aren't you…?_

I had almost finished the cigarette when I saw him approach. He looked more informal than I was accustomed to and said nothing when he stood beside me. His expression was so firm that his mood was hard to tell—and he stayed like this for a moment. I was trying to think of something to say to break the silence when he started laughing all of a sudden, shaking his head from side to side.

“Fucking hell, I can't believe you're here for real,” he said.

“Honestly, neither do I.” I didn't quite know why, but somehow I felt relieved. “But I see you're coming alone. Did you want to check that I wasn't high or something?”

He looked at his shoes in an unmistakable gesture of shame, but almost immediately lifted his head with the certainty that he’d done what he had to do.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said, but there was no unease in his voice.

“It's fair.”

He asked me why I was outside, _It's freezing cold_. But I told him I hadn't been here long, even though it wasn't entirely true. We went inside and Oliver asked me to pick a table while he ordered.

“It will take about twenty minutes for the pizzas to be ready,” he said, sitting opposite me with two pints of fresh and tasty beer. “If their mother knew what they’ve been eating for the past two days…”

“It's London, I'm sure she's got an idea.”

“You shouldn't say those things out loud.”

“Is it a lie?”

“I won't be the one to contradict you, but I warn you that I will act as if I don't know you if someone decides to confront you about it.”

“Don't worry, I'm used to getting in trouble for the things I say. How are Sean and Sophie?”

The subtle smile that had outlined his lips took over his entire face.

“They're good, very good. I don't know why I'm always afraid that they feel obliged to make this trip, but they really love to come. God, you should’ve seen Sean when he opened his present, Elio. Nothing made him happier than that CD.”

“I’m very happy to hear that.”

Oliver stared at his beer, then. The very first contact hadn’t been as uncomfortable as might have been expected, and we had started a conversation without hesitation—we had even managed to make a few jokes. I had thought that we were over the nuisance of having to face each other after what had happened in Paris. But perhaps it had been too easy, and it showed at this moment in which all of a sudden Oliver was cautious, distant.

“Why did you come?”

Not that it made much sense, but the question caught me off guard.

“I don't know.” And that was the truth. “What I told you the night we slept together, about the relationship I had with a man I never loved, and which I'm sure is what made you reconsider your feelings about me—I'm not trying to justify myself here, okay? I know I've done a lot of things wrong… but he lied to me, deceived me, and made me believe that he was someone he wasn't. Anyone would think that when you find out about something like that, your world would fall apart. But mine didn’t… and when I asked him to leave my apartment after a year together, I didn't feel anything. Nothing at all.” I sank in my seat, really understanding now how fucked-up everything have been. “After what happened with Fabi, I didn't think I’d be able to love someone that way again, and that's how I've felt about the relationships I've had since. But, _shit_, when I saw you leave my room, Oliver, I just—” I took a deep breath. “I needed to see you, I needed to talk to you because I can't imagine waiting another four or nine years for us to sit in another bar, in another city and pretend that nothing happened, and then force ourselves to confess how we feel about each other just to realize that, _again_, it's not the right time.”

Perhaps it was this after all, that I hadn’t been fully aware that fate had given us a new opportunity served on a silver platter, and I hadn’t only not known how to take it but had used it and thrown it away like an old rag. How daring was arrogance, especially that which didn’t accept losing.

Well, here I was. Defeated.

One of the employees called him by his name from the counter before Oliver could say anything. He didn’t move, though, he didn’t stop looking at me carefully, perhaps to tell me with his eyes what he hadn’t been able to express aloud.

“Would you like to join us?” He asked. “It won't be a fancy Christmas dinner, but—”

“Are you sure?”

It was a simple question, but it implied many things, many doubts and reservations. I hadn’t yet forgotten his face just before he left my hotel room, his mistrust and disappointment.

“I am.”

It didn't take us more than ten minutes by foot to get to his building. It was one of the few in the area that had more than three floors and his apartment was on the fourth. It wasn't the first time I'd seen Sean and Sophie, and yet my nerves took over when we got out of the elevator. Somehow I knew that this was some kind of test, with Oliver watching with extreme attention and caution each and every one of my interactions with his kids. But all the anxiety froze when the first thing I heard was the voice of a woman coming from what I suspected was the kitchen.

“That was very fast.”

She was blonde and freckled, and very tiny for such a deep voice. She stopped by the kitchen door when she saw that Oliver wasn't alone. Oliver introduced us immediately. Darcy. She was his neighbour as well as his saviour every time he had to run an errand and needed someone to watch over the kids.

“I only abuse of her trust the right amount of time,” he clarified.

“You know you can call me whenever you want, these kids are adorable.”

Darcy kept looking at me with that kind of expression of contended recognition—familiar already, but still hard to conform. In the end she didn't hold back and asked me if she'd seen me somewhere before. I couldn't stand this kind of question. How am I supposed to know if you've seen me anywhere or if you're simply confusing me with a distant cousin. It was Oliver who intervened, though, explaining to her that I was a musician and that maybe she’d seen me on TV. But she, apparently, wasn't much of a MTV watcher.

“Sean! Sophie! Your father's here!”

The first to jump out like a hare from one of the rooms in the back was Sophie followed by her brother, who showed a calmer attitude. The two of them, however, stopped as though they'd hit a wall as soon as they saw me. It did take Sophie only a second to react to start a sprint to throw herself into my arms. Oliver tried to warn her to be careful, but she wouldn't listen to him, she was too busy scolding me for not visiting them again as I had promised. She had grown so much. It seemed like two years were a short time, but it wasn't true. Sean, who was petrified like a marble statue (and seemed to hide something behind his back), had become a little young man. The two siblings looked a lot alike; blue eyes and curly golden hair. They were the perfect mix of their parents.

Oliver went into the kitchen to drop off the pizzas. Darcy had already left without me noticing, which wasn’t a surprise because Sophie didn’t stop talking and asking me questions.

“And we saw you in a magazine at the airport! Sean went crazy, and he bought it, and—”

“Sophie!” His face, still pale from the shock, turned bright red.

When I dropped Sophie on the floor, she grabbed my hand and led me to the living room. It wasn't at all like I had imagined, but I liked how cosy it looked. There was a couch up against the opposite wall, in front of the fireplace; beside it, using the extra space offered by the bay window, there was a round dinning table, and occupying the wall next to the door was a library full of books—in fact, there were books everywhere, and pictures, and plants. I hadn’t imagined Oliver as someone who cared too much about these things, but maybe I still had a lot to learn about the home-loving Oliver? The only thing that seemed out of place (apart from the Christmas tree that would soon disappear) was the electric piano.

I helped them set the table for dinner and then, while Oliver (intentionally) kept Sophie in the kitchen, I sat next to Sean on the couch. The carmine colour of his cheeks hadn’t yet disappeared.

“Do you like London?” I asked him.

“Yeah… I like it better than New England, honestly.”

“Why?”

“I don't know it's more… it's more.” He thought better of it. “It's less…”

“I understand.”

Sean smiled shyly.

“Your father told me you play the guitar very well.”

“I need to practice more, but now I'm trying to learn piano.”

“That sounds great. I learned to play piano before I learned to play guitar.”

“Really?”

This seemed to calm him down a bit, but before we could continue the conversation, Oliver, followed by a very focused on her mission Sophie, showed up with dinner.

I wasn't a big fan of pizza, especially if it wasn't Italian pizza, but I let myself savour this moment. The four of us chatted with extraordinary ease—even Sean, whose tension had finally evaporated from his shoulders, though the pink blush burned his face every time I addressed him directly. Sophie, however, was a hurricane. Now I understood what Oliver had meant when he’d told me about her grandparents' despair for not being able to mould her into a demure little princess.

After dinner, Sophie sat down at the coffee table to draw because she’d _had an idea_, while the three of us enjoyed the after-dinner conversation. We had engaged in a plethora of anecdotes about our childhood, each one more embarrassing. Then I had told Sean some of his father's misdemeanours during his stay in Italy, something that seemed to have entertained him much more than Oliver, who threatened to throw me out of the apartment if I didn’t shut up.

We laughed a lot.

Much more relaxed then, Sean asked me when I had started playing, if I had always wanted to be a musician, what it was like to record an album, how I felt when I was on stage… I patiently answered all his questions while Oliver watched the scene as a mere spectator.

“It has to be great seeing people loving what you do," Sean said in a too melancholic tone for someone so young.

“It is. But it's not all flattery, you also have to learn to face criticism.”

“I find it hard to believe that someone could speak ill of you or your music.”

I took a quick look at Oliver who was studying his son (who seemed to have forgotten that his father sat right there) with a mixture of delight and contemplation.

“There are. But it's okay, not everybody can like you.”

“Well, their loss. I think _Fragile_ is an incredible album, better than the first one.”

“Sean!” It was the first time Oliver had intervened and he’d almost jumped at his son's unrestrained frankness.

I quickly moved a leg and pressed my knee against his. This time Oliver’s body did react, startled by the unexpected attack. We had built a security area unconsciously from the moment we had met at the pizzeria. We hadn't hugged (unfitting), we hadn't even shaken hands (overly formal), and from that moment we had maintained a prudent distance between us. And now, I was breaking this artificial conservative pact because I didn't want Oliver to stop Sean. Oliver looked at me and understood right away, although it was obvious that the physical contact had made him nervous. Luckily for him, his son wasn't paying him the slightest attention.

“You think so?” I asked Sean.

“It's not that I don't like the first album, I like it a lot, but this one is…” He bit his lower lip, thoughtful and frustrated because he couldn't find the right word. “It's more… cohesive? With other albums sometimes I just feel like listening to one or two songs, but with this one, I want to listen to the whole thing from start to finish; it flows so well.”

“Those are very nice words, I really appreciate them. And you know what? I agree with you, I like this one better too.”

Sean's lips curved timidly. Oliver had covered his mouth with one hand, but it was evident that beneath his fingers he was smiling proudly. I withdrew my leg to a position of proper formality again, but to my surprise, Oliver's foot met my calf and stroked it slowly as he addressed his son, acting totally calm. He only stopped when Sophie returned to the table to show us the drawing she’d made. She sat on my lap and began to explain it. It was a stage, full of coloured lights, _many_ coloured lights, and framed by a huge red curtain. The attention to detail was striking, considering Sophie was only six years old.

“And who is this?” I asked, pointing to the figure in the centre.

“It's you!”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.”

“And what am I wearing?”

“It's a jacket made of feathers.”

“No way…”

“Yes!”

“Oh my God! I will have to ask someone to make this for me. I love it!”

Shortly afterwards, as Oliver was clearing the table, Sean sat down at the piano. It had been his father's suggestion, however, Sean, ready to be consumed by embarrassment, had told him he didn't want to play, but I encouraged him to do it, _I’d love to listen to you_. His sister sat on the floor next to him, looking at her brother with utter devotion as he interpreted with sweet precision _Karma Police_ from the album Radiohead had released the previous year. It was a good choice.

“And you say you're learning?” I asked him when it was over.

“Well, this one's easy.”

It was a simple melody, but I was still impressed.

“I've been trying to play _Early September_, but I always mess up with the harmony and chords.”

I looked at him quizzically. Of all the songs I had composed, Sean wanted to learn _Early September_, a song I had written as a memory of the summer I had spent with his father. It was a shocking feeling of tenderness and emotion.

“Do you want us to play it together?” I asked him.

Sean looked at me with his eyes wide open, but he moved aside for me to sit with him on the bench.

“All right, I play the chords and you play the harmony.”

Sean nodded. It's been a while since I played this song; the last time had been in San Diego, which had also been the only time we had played it live besides Paris. I had known Oliver was going to be there, among my guests, on the side of the stage. _Early September_ was a song almost eight minutes long, and a good part of it was a piano solo. There was no voice, no bass, no guitar, no drums. It was just my piano and me. And I’d wanted to play it at a rock festival just because I had known that he was going to be there. Of the twenty-five thousand people gathered that night, this song had only been for him.

When we took our hands off the keys, I was in a kind of trance. I noticed Sean was looking at me, but I needed a few seconds before I could turn to him. His expression was serene and enigmatic. Could an eleven-year-old boy know what this song meant? Could Sean know what his father really meant to me?

Oliver cleared his throat prudently behind us, as though he regretted having to break this moment but had no choice but to do so. He carried Sophie in his arms, huddled against his neck, asleep.

“It's time for bed,” he said in an almost cryptic tone. Sean opened his mouth to protest, but Oliver stopped him. “Come on, you haven't called your mom today and that will cost me a reprimand tomorrow.”

Sean got up grumbling, but before leaving the living room, he turned and said, “Thank you, Elio.”

I waited for Oliver in the kitchen, drying the dishes so I could say I had earned dinner, at least. Oliver took his time, even when I heard him approaching down the corridor, I noticed that he was walking very slowly. When he appeared, he didn’t come in; he simply folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“Very domestic for a rock star,” he said.

“Don't get used to it, I don't think you'll ever see anything like this again.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we lived together, the first thing I'd do would be to buy a dishwasher.”

Oliver chuckled and then turned slightly to check the corridor.

“You know? This is the first night since they arrived that Sophie falls asleep without me having to threaten to make her wear one of her grandmother's dresses if she doesn't go to bed.”

“I must be very boring, then.”

“I assure you, you aren’t.” He stepped forward and dropped something on the counter. The Rolling Stone magazine. “It was in the corridor’s sideboard.”

“So that's what he was trying to hide.”

“I’d never seen such an expression on his face, Elio. Seriously… thank you.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, for coming here after what I said to you, and for treating them like this. They’re kids, but they’re no fools, and they’re more aware of the things that are happening than we adults give them credit for. I’m sick of them being treated as if their opinion and desires are worthless, of no one, except their mother, deigning to listen to them. One day my father…" He paused and licked his lips in anger. "One day my father asked Sean why he didn't sign up for some sporting activity, like the other boys—that would make him stronger and open more doors for him. Sean replied that he had already joined the music group. His grandfather looked at him and said to his damn face, _That's for faggots_. Sean didn't touch his guitar for two weeks after that. And you know what the worst part is? I didn't say anything. I stood there, paralyzed, watching my father humiliate my son. And I did _nothing_.”

“Things are complicated, they always are… but you don't have to thank me for any of this; you had reason to say what you said… And I know my opinion has no value, but I think you're doing a great job with them. You're a great dad, Oliver.”

He let a certain sweetness in the vision keep him silent for a moment, but he still looked worried.

“I'm scared, very scared. I want them to have the freedom to decide and I know Sophie won't have any problems because she has always shown a lot of courage, but Sean… I see the same doubts and fears that I had at his age, and I want him to feel that he can show himself as he is, and express what he wants and what he feels. But at the same time I think, how am I going to expect society to be benevolent towards him, if his own family isn’t?”

“You're not gonna be able to protect him forever, Oliver. All he needs is for you to be understanding and patient with him, and to be there when he needs you. The best thing he can do is learning to lick his wounds on his own, being sure of who he is.”

“Do you still think you wouldn't be a good dad?”

“Absolutely.”

We went back to the living room. Oliver offered me something to drink and then sat down on the couch while I moved around taking a look at the books and photographs, until I stood next to the electric piano and stroked the keys without pressing them.

“It's a good piano,” I said.

“He chose it.”

“Wow, I see he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah… although I have to admit that I'm a bit jealous, you haven't played anything for me yet.”

“I played for you once, and you didn’t stop complaining.”

“That doesn't count, you were playing someone else's work.”

“I'm not even sure if you like my music.”

“Do you need me to tell you?”

“Are you really asking me if you need to inflate the ego of a person who lives off having his ego inflated? Of course!”

Oliver laughed, got up from the couch and approached the shelf where he kept his music collection. Of all the vinyls and CDs he pulled out one with a pink cover I knew very well. It wasn't the same copy I had signed for Sean. I smiled at him with petulance just not to show him how much this actually meant to me, and then I sat at the piano patting the little space left on the bench for him to sit with me. Oliver was much bigger than Sean, so we were very close, but it wasn't going to be me who protested.

“Won't they wake up?” I asked.

“Sophie has a hard time getting used to sleeping away from home, but right now they wouldn't wake up even if a meteorite fell on us.”

“All right… what do you want me to play?”

“Surprise me.”

I began to play immediately, accompanying the notes with the subtle humming of my voice. Oliver listened attentively. I wasn't looking at him because I had closed my eyes to let myself get carried away by this moment overflowing with intimacy, but I could feel the scrutiny of his gaze piercing my temple. When I finished and the sound of the last note dissipated in the air, I turned to look at him as much as our glued shoulders allowed me.

“Is it new?” he asked, softly.

“It's a melody I've been thinking about a lot the last few days.”

“It’s beautiful, Elio.”

“Thank you…”

Stop looking at me like this, Oliver. Please, stop looking at me like this or I'll do something very stupid, again, and that's not what I came for.

“_Fuck_," I sighed, letting myself fall forward until my forehead met his neck. “What's going to happen now?”

“I don't know, Elio, I don't know.” At least I was glad to know that he was as confused as I was. “All I know is that I'm happy you came. I hated the way I left, but I guess I have some pride to take care of too.”

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t want you to—”

He rested one hand on my cheek and lifted my head gently.

“It’s okay, Elio, I know.”

“So… we good?”

“We good.”

“Okay… I have to say this was easier than I thought it would be.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all.” I smiled kind of amused by the idea. “But I think my mission here is accomplished. I should go rest, if I miss the train tomorrow, this island won’t be big enough for me to hide from Burton.”

“Isn’t he the Dictator anymore?”

“We all change sooner or later.”

I was going to get up, but Oliver’s hand caught my wrist.

“You can stay here if you want.”

It was not my imagination, there was a thread of despair in his voice, and as though he had noticed it himself, he added, “The couch is not very comfortable but…”

“Are you inviting me to sleep on the couch? I thought you were more romantic.”

Oliver leaned forward; his lips were now very close to mine.

“Believe me, it's not what I want, but when Sophie has a bad night, she tends to jump into my bed without any kind of preamble.”

“Then it would be a shock if she found me there, right?”

“I don't think she'd mind finding _you_… but she'd ask a lot of questions, of course. And I'm not quite sure how Sean would take this, really.”

There was humour in his voice, a calm and sexy humour that not only reassured me but turned me on.

“Then I guess I should go. It's the best thing, you know…" I teasingly stroked his nose with mine, "for both of us.”

I got up to get my jacket.

“I didn't have you for a vengeful person,” he said, following me.

“I'm not, I'm just following your advice. Which was a good advice, by the way.”

We stopped by the front door. I was trying to act phlegmatic, but I was enjoying this side of Oliver. For once, it wasn’t me who was begging, though he did so in a much more elegant and restrained way.

“What time’s your train?” He asked.

“Eleven.”

“Let's have breakfast.” He started laughing the moment he said it. “Yes, you're right, it looks like breakfast is our thing. Besides, I'm sure the kids would like to say goodbye to you.”

I agreed. How could I not? Oliver wrote the address on a piece of paper and we said goodbye with a civility that neither of us believed in.

The place Oliver had chosen was close to Hyde Park, it was small, decorated in an industrial style but cosy nonetheless, with exposed brick walls that contrasted with the old wooden furniture. But the most striking feature were the shelves full of books—even on a Saturday morning, in the middle of the Christmas holidays, there were people sitting alone immersed in a book while they drank a delicious hot roasted coffee. I could imagine Oliver coming here with his colleagues to chat and debate for hours.

Oliver and the kids arrived at about the same time as me. Sophie ran up to me as soon as she saw me waiting for them at the entrance. She wore a mustard-coloured coat, under which I could see a pink tulle skirt, garnet leotards, and winter boots. Oliver blinked repeatedly as though to say, _Don't ask_. For his part, Sean seemed to have made an effort, or at least a more coordinated one, with his clothes. But not even the cold that had already reddened his cheeks was able to mask the blush that popped up when I told him I liked his navy blue duffle coat.

We didn't skimp on food, we ordered a full English breakfast, and we made the most of our time together. For a moment, I wished I didn’t have to go. But the time came. Sophie tried to persuade me to stay with them with all sorts of plans, while Sean, surreptitiously, relied on his sister's arguments, agreeing with her without having to go out on a limb. But Oliver finally convinced them to say goodbye to me and then to wait for him in the taxi. Mine was parked right behind theirs.

“Five more minutes and they would’ve gotten you to buy a house here, I assure you,” he said.

“I prefer Paris, but I don't have bad memories of London.”

Oliver smiled warmly, and then looked at his watch.

“You'll be late.”

“I know… but I don't want to leave without giving you something.” I put my hand inside my jacket and took out an envelope—a new envelope because I had carefully folded and put in my wallet the one on which he had written his number.

“Elio—”

“Please… it would mean a lot to me if you came.”

I didn't wait for Oliver to make up his mind, but grabbed his hand and pressed the envelope into it. Oliver looked at it and bit his lower lip in the same manner I had seen Sean the night before. Then he smiled.

“Why don't you give it to them yourself?”

He had no idea how happy this made me.

“And take away your chance to become the best dad in the world? Nah.”

He moved his head, considering the suggestion, and put the envelope in his pocket.

“Can I give you a hug?”

Oliver always asking the most stupid questions.

I stepped forward and put my arms around his neck, and we stayed this way probably longer than was convenient in a public place, but I was willing to use every last second.

“Thank you so much for this,” he said, his warm breath against my ear.

“No thanks to you for not slamming the door in my face.”

“I couldn't ever do that. But it's really getting late and I still appreciate my balls, very much.”

He was right, it was time to go. So I got into the taxi without any more fuss. Tomorrow they'd be there, with Marzia and Fabi, and my mom. They were already part of my family. In fact, it was likely that Oliver had joined it the very moment his espadrilles tested the gravel leading to our home in Italy.

His home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are curious about how “Early September” sounds played by two people [click here!!](https://youtu.be/gRRq-0d8EFA):


	11. Ten

I’d almost missed the train, but I was now back in Paris.

There’s something powerful that possesses you when you feel that you have finally found a way to set the course of the ship after being lashed by a strong storm that has been about to send you adrift and, worst of all, make you give up—a calm that frees you from the pressure that has been shrinking each and every one of your muscles. You can't fly but you feel as though you could. It's like coming out of a deep, dark well after a long time without seeing the rays of the sun. Curiously, today Paris had dawned cloudy and threatening rain, but not even the compact grey clouds could wipe the smile off my face.

Burton was waiting for me at the door of _La Cigale_, and although he tried to hide it, his chest rose with relief when he saw me getting out of the taxi. Inside the venue were Ryan Wagner and Ronnie Dashev, from Maverick, talking to Davis. Wagner and Dashev had landed a few hours earlier and were quite satisfied with all the news (in spite of the other news about the company that had been floating in the air for a few months now). The album was already among the top 20 in the United States, and in UK’s top 10, and yesterday it had reached number one in France. They had also spoken with Rolling Stone’s manager who had informed them that the new issue was received well above expectations. I didn't ignore the complacent look Davis and Burton shared. Davis told me later that, before the publication, Rolling Stone had sent them the text and photos, and that Wagner had wanted to erase and modify some parts of the interview. I figured which ones. After a heated exchange of mails and calls (and to my utter surprise), it had been Burton who had convinced Wagner to leave everything as it was.

“I'll end up liking him,” I said.

“Burton's the only one with good judgment among that bunch of charlatans,” Davis snarled. Then he forced a smile when he saw Wagner and Dashev approaching, and took them to one of the boxes to watch the soundcheck.

This was the last rehearsal before the concert, so we played until our whole body hurt, arguing long and hard about the set, and finishing the last arrangements. We just paused for some sandwiches Burton had brought us and then continued working.

By the time we were done, it had already become night, the temperature had plummeted considerably and the rain was falling like sharp ice prickles. I thought about calling Oliver; it had only been a few hours since we’d said goodbye and I was already missing them. What would they be doing now? I held back, but I was smiling again—that kind of smile which makes you look stupid but you are unable to tame because it has the same nerve as a lion watching a whip with the insolence of knowing that, if it wanted to, it would devour you completely. And I was willing to let it do that, eat me and crush every last bone without leaving a trace of flesh.

Looking out the taxi’s window, seeing how the drops crashing against the glass solidified into premature snowflakes, I thought about where I'd been just a week before and imagined myself here with Bernard.

How could I’ve been so foolish?

Although, it hadn't really been a matter of foolishness but of the ease with which I had allowed my own despair to mask all the warning signs, like neon lights announcing that you are taking the wrong path but you, for whatever reason, pretend not to see. The problem hadn’t been Bernard; I was the problem, and my inability to face with maturity a situation that had totally escaped my control.

In the hotel’s lobby, Burton told me that we had a dinner scheduled in an hour. This was also part of the job, unfortunately, having to sit down with the executives and kiss their asses to reassure them that their money was more than well invested. I was thankful that Davis was going to be there.

The shower’s hot water washed away the sweat and all the remaining discomfort. I felt good, _very_ good. I wiped the condensation from the mirror and watched attentively the man looking back at me with keen curiosity.

I finally recognized him.

I was putting on my pants when someone knocked on the door. I didn't even let him say hello, the moment I opened and saw his curls bouncing I threw myself at him. His laugh was probably the best sound in the world—and how I liked the feeling of his arms holding me and the pleasure it gave me to know that we had finally left the bad moments buried in the past.

“_La vache! _Careful! I'm getting too old for this kind of effusiveness," Fabi said.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room. There, I hugged him again.

“I'm so glad you're here,” I said, taking a look at his clothes, his face, his hair. “Look at you, you look so good. I always thought Paris suited you better than any other city.”

“You look good, too. Even half naked… much better than last time, and better than you sounded on the phone.”

“I was just tired.”

“Yeah, that's what you said…” he pointed out matter-of-factly as he walked around the room, glancing at the elegant wainscot panels that covered the walls before contemplating the view of the Eiffel Tower through the French windows. He turned with raised eyebrows. “Davis spared no expense.”

“It's the smallest suite.”

“Oh, is the Diva complaining?”

“Always.”

We laughed, but I kept looking at him; there was some conscious moderation in his attitude. He stood behind one of the armchairs and rested his elbows on its back.

“Everything’s all right, then?” He asked.

I watched him closely.

He knew it.

I didn't know how he knew, or what exactly he knew, but I knew he knew. I could tell by the subtle way he closed his lips in measured restraint, as though he needed to ponder cautiously what his words gave a glimpse of. I felt a tingling in my stomach, and his inquisitive gaze finally made me blush with embarrassment, agitated like a teenager who is forced to confess whether it’s true that he’s been snogging with his history teacher in the library.

Damn you, Fabi.

I loved and hated that he knew me so well. And I also loved and hated Victoria who was probably the one who had let the cat out of the bag.

“I have some things to tell you,” I said, pretending that I hadn't noticed his sharp scrutiny.

“Really?” He played coy, but the deferential grimace that kept the tension on his face clearly said, _I know you've noticed that I already know_.

I could just tell him, as I would’ve done before all of this, when we’d lived basically in each other’s pockets, separated by an empty apartment and linked by a fire escape. I would’ve galloped up all those steps, probably skipping two or three at the time, and would’ve knocked at his window until I’d managed to get his attention or until my knuckles had hurt. He’d appear there, drowsy, surely he would’ve been lying on the couch or on the bed; he worked so much that, as he himself said, he lived feeling tired. _You're not gonna believe what happened to me_, I'd tell him as soon as I set foot in his living room. And he would’ve listened kindly, as he always did; only intervening to mock my quirky behaviour because there were always large doses of that. But then he'd get serious, look me in the eye and ask me, _Are you sure of what you're doing?_

He always asked the same question, he also did when I told him about Bernard. Fabi knew better than anyone how passionate and impulsive I was, and that had led me too often to face a reality that I hadn’t been able to see coming from afar.

Neon lights again.

But too much had happened since those moments of unabashed friendship, when we didn't shy away from sliding a hand inside each other's underwear and then act as though nothing had happened. For us it was so normal that falling hopelessly in love had been a totally natural process. We had loved each other with devotion and adoration. And perhaps that was the issue, that after we had ended our relationship and after the Bernard fiasco, I was not sure how he would react to Oliver. What was I going to say to him, anyway, if I wasn't sure what was going on either?

The relationship between Fabi and Oliver had been unexpectedly accepting from the start—not like there would’ve been a reason not to. But it had been impossible to overlook Fabi's tension in San Diego. There had been a lot at stake—all eyes were on us as a band but also on Fabi as a manager. Maverick wouldn't have hesitated to blame him if the next day's press hadn’t been simply excellent.

Oliver and Charlotte had arrived with my parents. The whole encounter had been quite puzzling, as when you strive to be present at a particular moment, while your head is lost elsewhere, and mine had been _everywhere_: in B., in my room, in my bed, the one I had shared with Oliver and then shared with Fabi. It had also been in New York, in his hotel room, and there, in San Diego, in that makeshift dressing room that could barely fit ten people. Suddenly, I had seen myself shaking the hand of the woman who had looked at me through the plastic of a photograph with a smile, unaware that I had been trying to fuck her husband moments before. Gripped by that vision, I had turned to introduce Fabi to them. _Mr America, we finally meet_, he’d said, that had made Charlotte laugh, who had then started a lively chat with me. Her voice had been sweet and welcoming, and there had been nothing unnatural in the way she’d conducted the conversation. A stagehand had come shortly after to take all the guests to the area reserved for them, and had given us ten minutes to prepare and get on stage.

Everything that had happened afterwards, both the concert and the afterparty, was something that I had stored in my memory as one of those dreams that you know you've had, but of which you're only capable of remembering a general idea, and no matter how hard you try, you're unable of filling it with details.

The next day we had met with my parents and Oliver and Charlotte for breakfast at the hotel where they all stayed. Once again, casualness had reigned and before saying goodbye, it had been Charlotte who had invited us to Sophie's birthday. Oliver, however, had been quite aloof about it. _They're probably very busy, honey_, he had argued. I had looked at Fabi who, in turn, had glanced back at me, making it clear that if anyone was going to make that decision it wasn't going to be him. I had accepted. After breakfast the four of them had left for the airport, while we’d stayed to watch the performances of the last day of the festival.

That night I’d woken up alone in bed. Fabi had been on the terrace and if the ashtray on the small table was indicative, he’d been there for quite some time. I’d curled up next to him on the wicker couch but I was met with an unfamiliar stiffness of his body. A few long, heavy minutes of silence had passed before he, with his usual frankness, had asked, _Do you still have feelings for him?_

I’d gotten up off the couch like he’d just stabbed my side with a knife. I’d almost laughed at the question but the concern that contracted his face had been perfectly visible even in the moonlight.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“It's a very simple question, Elio," he’d said without hesitation, but gently. “Look, I'm not going to play the jealous boyfriend card because what happened between you guys happened a long time ago. And I can understand that such an experience can mark you forever. But New York wasn't that long ago and I know you didn't decide to play _Early September_ by chance.”

Fabi would never cease to amaze me, especially because I’d been sure that if I’d been in his place I wouldn’t have spoken with the same endurance that he did. Fabi had just been looking for an honest answer, so I’d given it to him, “Yeah, I put it on the setlist because I knew he was going to be there. And if you're going to ask me _Why_? The answer is, I don't know, Fabi. Maybe I just needed to get rid of that last thorn of my past.”

He had nodded, calmly, which didn't make me feel like he really believed me. All of a sudden I’d seen myself losing him and that had caused me a grief that had shaken all my senses.

“Fabi.” I’d sat next to him and had held his hand firmly. “All right, you want honesty, then I'll be honest. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget what I had with Oliver, but that chapter of my life was closed in New York. I wouldn't exchange what I have with you right now for anything or anyone.”

Fabi had studied me closely before he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine.

“Okay…” he’d whispered, “but I'm sure he still has feelings for you.”

“Don't talk nonsense.”

He had laughed, although I wasn't so convinced that he’d really wanted to make a joke, and now I doubted it even more after what Oliver had told me. Maybe, once again, I hadn't been able to see the signs, especially because, at that moment, I hadn't needed to see them or look for them—I’d been happy with Fabi and I simply didn't see myself sharing my life with anyone else.

We hadn’t talked about it again after San Diego, and on the two occasions we’d visited Oliver and Charlotte in New England, Fabi had managed to win everyone over with his peculiar charisma, including the kids. Sophie wouldn't leave his side. Even Oliver's friends had begun to call him_ Mr America_. As for Fabi and Oliver, it had been evident that they’d never become close friends, neither did they try to be, but at least they’d tolerated each other without any kind of susceptibility or false affection. Everything had been as normal as it could have been. At least, that's what I’d thought until now. And that uncertainty was tying my hands and feet, preventing me from exposing a matter that made me feel as confused as the very day I’d seen Oliver get out the Fiat that had brought him to our house fifteen years ago.

Victoria showed up to save my neck luckily. Apparently I had been wrong, and it turned out that it was not going to be a professional dinner, everyone was invited: her, Jameela, Carson, Fabi. And they weren't the only ones, in the lobby were waiting for us Marzia and her husband, Vincent, my mother and—I couldn't believe it.

“_Papa_…”

I ran to him and hugged him so tight that I wouldn't have been surprised if he had fainted because of the lack of air. I didn't want to put on a show in front of everyone, not after having managed to contain myself in the apartment with my mum, but I cried a little while he said, _Oh, Elio, Elio_.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…”

“_Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas,”_ he said in my ear.

The heart has its reasons that reason doesn't know.

I'd read that quote before, but I wasn't sure where. It didn't matter. Hearing his voice was enough for me. Then I looked him up and down. There was something different about him, at first I didn't know what it was, but then I saw it clearly.

“Where's your beard?”

He touched his smooth cheeks with a pout.

“I wanted a change,” he said. “I've been told I look younger.”

It was true.

“I don't like it.”

Everyone burst out laughing, which certainly helped to relax the atmosphere.

In the restaurant we met Burton and Davis along with Wagner and Dashev. And against all odds, it was a nice, comfortable dinner, where business was barely discussed, and the conversation revolved around ordinary things instead. We almost looked like one big family. Yet, I felt there were too many things that didn't quite fit at the table. My parents sat opposite each other and the two were having an animated talk with Davis. Their gestures kept expressing confidence but the distance between them was also unquestionable. That saddened me in spite of the glances that they devoted to each other every time one of them said something that reminded the other of a bygone time, which led them to share a complacent smile that established their affection but that, far from bringing them together, seemed to define, in an even clearer way, everything that kept them apart.

Was this what awaited Fabi and me?

Fabi sat opposite me, I looked at him constantly, trying to steal glances—I was making a real effort to be attentive to anyone who addressed me and tonight everyone seemed to want to. Except him. I ended all my interventions with my eyes on Fabi, but he was engaged in an intense debate with Marzia's husband, who sat next to him, about whether the digital albums sounded better than analogue recordings. When our eyes met occasionally, he would draw a half smile but then shake his head, annoyed by one of Vincent's _wrong_ arguments and turned to refute him.

Meanwhile, Marzia was telling me how hard it was for her to adapt to her new job in an art gallery. She was an assistant to the gallery owner, although in reality, and in her own words, she was doing _her _fucking_ job_, which consisted of looking for new artists to represent, manage their careers, contact with the media and collectors, and to take them to exhibitions. I was trying to be kind to her, I would nod and say things like, _That’s not fair_ or _I'm sure that it’ll get better._ Flimsy answers that I doubted would be able to hide the fact that my attention was focused on the other side of the table. I was thinking about whether Fabi was intentionally shunning me or whether Vincent was really that good (or that bad) at debating that he even got Carson into the argument.

“Even if they're right, they are not going to be able to get the idea out of his head. He's too proud to admit he's wrong,” Marzia said at one point, perhaps aware that I was more interested in them than in what she was telling me.

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“It's all right. I guess it has to be complicated.”

Her assessment had been quite ambiguous. I nodded anyway.

“Still, I'm sorry. I'm so selfish… always thinking about me, and you're here telling me your problems and I'm not paying any attention to you.”

“They’re not problems… I just needed to say out loud how much I hate my boss.”

“You're very good at your job, Marzia, and I'm convinced you'll end up opening your own gallery. So, learn all you can from this experience, and fuck her,” I said, lifting my glass of wine.

She smiled, and did the same.

“Fuck her.” Then she set the glass back on the table and folded her arms. “How’s Oliver?”

My eyes immediately landed on Fabi, but he was still pretty much absorbed by that absurd debate that Victoria had now joined. Jameela just sat there, with her frugal attitude, drinking as she rolled her eyes. I knew she would intervene at any moment and her opinion would be so categorical that she would settle the dispute immediately.

“Does Fabi know?” I asked Marzia quietly, but she just shrugged and drank more wine.

I had thought that maybe Victoria had been the snitch because she and Fabi had known each other for a very long time and their friendship went back beyond ours. But I didn't realize that Marzia had also seen Oliver. Now I couldn't stop thinking about how Marzia could have told him, if she had simply let it slip as a minor anecdote, _You wouldn't guess whom I saw the other day, _or if she had expressed the same concern that she had shown when we had spoken about it. Marzia had no reason to mistrust Oliver, but she had a soft spot for Fabi, and she wouldn't hesitate to tear every curl off my head if I hurt him. In fact, hers had been one of the first calls I'd received when we broke up.

We moved to the bar after dinner. At that time, the music was louder than usual and there were people who found the courage to get up from their tables to dance. It wasn't very crowded and yet I didn't stop scanning those present in search of Fabi. He was in a corner, talking to Davis, I was sitting at a table with my parents as they were continuing a conversation they’d already had on the phone. I wasn't paying much attention. Later, Victoria took my father to dance to Pulp’s _Disco 2000 _with her, and my mother laughed at the ridiculous scene as though everything between them was just fine.

“Is there really no way you can fix this?” I asked her.

“Fix what, Elio?”

“You know what.”

“But we're better than ever, _mon amour_.”

She was a little tipsy already, but seemed very sure of what she was saying, and I hadn't really perceived any kind of aversion in the way they behaved. They still loved each other, it was obvious, but they also understood that they wanted to be free. Maybe that was the lesson, after all, that you could love someone without your life evolving around that love.

“Everything all right with Oliver?” She asked then, with that kind of vague tone that made a clearly compromising question sound light.

“Yes… everything's fine.” I smiled at her to show that I wasn't lying, but I still couldn't take my eyes off Fabi, who was now at the bar with Carson. “He and the kids are coming over tomorrow for the concert.”

“Oh, really? That's great!”

And although she was sincere, she was not stupid. She understood perfectly well my concern right now. So when dad came back, complaining that the years didn't go by without a trace, she got up, claiming she was also tired and that it was better to get some rest. The two said goodbye with their usual show of affection, to which my mother added a caress that ran up and down my back, as though she was encouraging me. The moment they disappeared through the door, and as soon as Fabi was left alone at the bar, I approached him.

“Are you having a good time?” I asked.

He looked at me as though he was surprised to see me there as he set aside his straw.

“Yeah, it's not bad. You?”

“Same. But I don't know why I have the _slight_ feeling you're avoiding me.”

“You think so?”

“I think so.”

Fabi drank from his glass before answering, “I'm not avoiding you, but it's been a while since you've seen your parents and I thought it would be nice to give you some space.”

“Is that all?”

“What else could it be?”

His question didn’t reflect any kind of naivety. _Again_, he was telling me, _I know why you are asking me this, but I’m not going to make it easy for yo_u.

I leaned over the bar and asked the waiter to serve me a vodka and soda.

“Wouldn't it be better just be soda?” Fabi asked.

“Right now? No.”

“Adding a hangover to tomorrow's nerves isn't a good idea, Elio.”

His concern was genuine, like everything else in him. When the waiter left the glass with the vodka on the bar and the half-full soda bottle next to it, I took only the bottle. Fabi smiled.

“There's a reason you were and you'll ever be the best manager I could have.”

“I think Burton's doing a great job.”

“Yes, but I can't ask him for certain extra favours.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Can you imagine?”

We giggled stupidly like two schoolgirls, which helped me to calm down a bit. But then came the silence, only clouded by the joy around us that ended up becoming distant and muffled. It could have been just him and me here, staring at each other, challenging us to see who had the balls to speak first, and knowing his admirable endurance I knew for sure that it wasn't going to be him. His calm but cautious countenance looked beautiful under the graceful pink and violet lights.

“You know it, don't you?” I said finally.

“It's possible that I know something, yes.”

I turned to him, leaving very little space between us.

“Stay tonight.”

I noticed he was about to protest.

“I didn't say to fuck.”

He drank what was left in his glass in a long swallow.

“Fabi, we won't be able to get back what we had if we don't behave as we did then. Like when the radiators in your apartment broke down—do you remember that? You’d run down the fire escape, in freezing temperatures, just dressed in a t-shirt and briefs and then curled up with me in bed.”

Fabi smiled at the memory; his eyes shone brighter than before.

“I miss you,” I said. “And we need to talk.”

He nodded. “Yes, we have to talk… actually, there’s something I have to tell you, too.”

That put me on alert, and flaunting the patience I didn't have, I took his hand and led him out of the bar. We ran into Marzia, who looked at us with a furrowed brow, warning him that she hadn’t spent the whole afternoon setting up the sofa-bed for him not to sleep over. Fabi only shrugged, as though he had no other choice, while I dragged him towards the elevators. I didn't let him go until we got to my room and, once inside, I went straight for the bottle of champagne.

“A glass won't hurt and will help us break the ice,” I said while struggling with the cork.

“We never needed to break the ice.”

The cork went off without warning and Fabi had to bend down while the champagne spilled all over my fingers and the carpet. At least this made us laugh like we'd already had too much to drink. Then we sat on the edge of the bed and drank quietly for a while. I was trying to find the right words, but everything seemed inadequate and forced, and it was frustrating.

“It wasn't Victoria,” Fabi said, then, saving me the effort.

I was relieved, both because he’d started the conversation and because of what he’d said.

“Marzia?”

“No. Carson.”

“Carson?”

Fabi chuckled. “Yeah, I guess he didn't know it was some kind of secret or something. I asked where you were and he just said, _I think he's in London visiting Ken_.”

“_Ken_… can't you all call him by his name?”

Fabi clicked his tongue.

“Anyway, Victoria and Jameela started hitting him in the ribs not too subtly. He didn't understand a thing, of course. You know? I admire his attitude, he does his thing and he doesn't care too much about other people's business.”

“I didn't ask them to keep it a secret, Fabi.”

“It’s okay… I would’ve understood anyway.”

Sorrow in his voice.

I didn't like this.

Secrets implied a commitment to remain silent—distrust, a stain on the transparent glass. We had never hidden anything from each other, and him believing I was ready to ask our friends to keep things from him hurt me more than anything else.

I took the empty glasses, left them on the dresser and then asked him, without saying anything, to join me in bed. We lay on our sides, facing each other.

“Everything caught me by surprise,” I said. "And more so after Bernard. It was… I don't know. I felt an unusual comfort when I saw him. Which is pretty weird because it's been a long time since I've thought about him. He's divorced and now lives in London.”

Fabi seemed shocked but he said nothing.

“We spent a lovely afternoon and then ended up at his hotel. It was a disaster, Fabi.”

He raised a curious eyebrow.

“I told him everything, about my parents, about B., about Mafalda… and about us. You know what? I think he actually likes you.”

“Everybody likes me.”

We both tried to suppress a giggle because everyone knew Fabi's animosity towards more than half the human population.

“The next day we ate together,” I continued, "and everything was good, _so_ good… too good, maybe. Until we got here and I fucked everything up again.”

I waited a moment to see if Fabi would say something, but he remained obstinately silent.

“I guess I went to London to apologize.”

“And it worked?”

It had worked, yes. And that made me feel good, like everything was falling into place, once and for all. I thought of the kids, then. I told him how much they had changed in those two years. I told him about Sean's talent and Sophie’s unstoppable boldness, and that between her questions and scolding, she had found a moment to ask me about him. This made Fabi smile broadly.

“I invited them to come tomorrow.”

“That's nice.”

“Is it?”

“Of course, why not?”

“I don't know, Fabi, after everything that's happened I don't want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Fabi meditated long and deeply, then lay on his back, considering.

“I know I'm still in love with you, Elio, but I also know that the time has come for me to move on. There's no doubt we're better friends than lovers. And although there’s a part of me that refuses to accept all this, deep down I knew that this would end up happening. I knew that you two would find a way to each other again. It was only a matter of time…” He spoke softly, there was no sourness in his words, but there was a slight bitterness that he knew how to cover up in neat observation. “I just want you to be happy.”

I caressed his beautiful face as I had done so many times before. He took my hand and moved his head to kiss my palm.

“I can't be happy if you're not happy.”

“I'll be fine… oh, please, Elio, don't cry.”

I hadn’t noticed the tears that had pooled in my eyes. I filled my lungs with his familiar scent, and that I would always carry with me, before I rubbed my cheeks as though this way I could avoid the possibility of weeping.

“Okay, okay… your turn, then,” I said.

“My turn?”

“You said you had something to tell me.”

“Ah, yeah, that…” He took a deep breath. “I'm seeing someone.”

I had no right, but suddenly I felt as though he had hit me with a heavy hammer in my chest. I leaned up on my elbow so I could look at him better.

“What? For how long?”

“A couple of months.”

“And why didn't you tell me before?”

“Because I haven't had the chance and because it's still very new. We're getting to know each other. Well, I already knew him but not like this. You know him, too, actually.”

I tried to read his expression, looking for something, even though I didn't know what exactly.

“Who?”

He waited intentionally for some endless seconds before answering, “Jamie.”

I sat up on the bed abruptly.

“Jamie?” I said louder than I had intended. “Jamie-Jamie? Our Jamie? Marie's Jamie?”

Fabi covered his face with his hands and started laughing.

“Yes, that Jamie.”

“Are you serious?”

“He may seem a bit crazy, but he's actually very sweet.”

“_Jamie_?”

Fabi threw me one of the cushions—he was still laughing and that ended up making me laugh, too.

“I don't know how it happened,” he said. “I guess he was just there at a time when I needed someone.”

My heart shrank from the thought of all that Fabi had suffered, and how I not only hadn’t been there for him but also had added more misery to his pain.

Fabi sat up and cupped my face.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered.

“Let's not go there again, we're done with that. Let's stop looking backwards, okay?”

We lay back on the bed, hugging, legs intertwined, and let the distant sound of traffic serve as our lullaby until we fell asleep.

I woke up several times during the night, as though, somehow, I feared that when I opened my eyes Fabi would no longer be there. I tossed and turned until it became unbearable, and I got up so as not to disturb him. He slept with half his face buried in the pillow and curls scattered all over it. I sat in one of the armchairs, wrapped in a blanket, and contemplated the last vestiges of darkness before dawn. It had been snowing and a thin white layer was covering the roofs; the haze made the lights look like oscillating spheres.

I thought about our conversation and how all of this, and what was to come, would affect our relationship from now on—the new tour and the ever-growing level of demand. I always said I wasn't thinking about the future, but I was. What would happen to Miss Indigo if we didn't live up to expectations? And what would happen to Fabi now that we could barely see each other? I also thought about Jamie and Oliver and the kids, and how they could fit into all of this.

I didn't hear him get out of bed and it startled me when he stroked my shoulder. Then he took a cushion, threw it on the floor and sat on it. He asked me to join him, and I did.

“Why are you awake?” he asked.

“I don't know…”

“Have you forgotten what it's like to sleep with me?”

It was just a joke, but I knew the question came from a sincere heart.

I leaned back a little so I could look into his eyes.

“I've been thinking…” I said. “You said something that worried me—that thing about Oliver and me finding our way together again. It's bold because, honestly, I don't know what's going to happen between us or if even there’ll be an _us_, Fabi… but I can’t stand the idea of you thinking that I've been with you because I couldn't be with him.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know, but I need to tell you this. I haven’t loved anyone as I’ve loved you and I still love you, Fabi, and I don't think I’ll be able to love someone else in the same way. Just as I've never felt for anyone what I've felt and feel for Oliver and… I don’t know, it's… different and complicated and—”

Fabi started chuckling. “Do you know what's complicated?”

“What?”

“_You_, Elio Perlman, you're complicated.” He kissed my forehead and then put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me against him. “Are you nervous?”

“Not anymore.”

“And I didn't even have to blow you.”

“Oh, come on! Everything was so sweet.” I nudged him; then I took a look at the clock. “But we still have time…”

It was his turn to pinch me, which made us laugh hard. I had missed him so much.

We sat there for a while, watching the clouds change from gold to orange and then to reddish pink.

“You know I'm gonna have to talk to Jamie, right?” I said when the sun was starting to light up the city even though it had started snowing again. “If he dares to treat you only half as bad as I treated you, I'll kill him.”

Fabi pressed me harder against him; I could feel his hot breath on my hair.

“Do you remember the last time we saw sunrise together?” He asked.

Of course, I remembered. Everything that had happened afterwards was kept in my mind as a veiled memory, but I knew that I wouldn’t forget that weekend as long as I lived.

“Yes… you kept trying to convince me to show my music to the world.”

“And here we are.”

And here we were.


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, technically this is the last chapter, but will be followed up with an epilogue, so we can soon say that this story has reached its real end! Oh boy, this makes me really sad, but I’ll leave all the sentimentality for next week… this chapter comes with two extras that are linked at the end. Please enjoy! ❤️

I hadn't been nervous before, but I certainly was now.

We had played hundreds of concerts over the last four years, week after week, day after day. But this was completely different. This was the beginning of a new stage for Miss Indigo. Our response to those who doubted the band's longevity, and the best opportunity to show that we weren’t one of those ephemeral artists who kissed the summit of sudden notoriety and then drowned in their own success, falling at a dizzying speed into absolute oblivion.

And I wasn't the only one restless. It was known that representatives of other record companies were going to be present at the concert, which was apparent in Wagner and Dashev’s docile attitude. It wasn't a secret that Maverick was going through a hard time—in fact, there were rumours that Warner Music had put a cheque on their table to buy the company. This would undoubtedly affect all the artists in their catalogue, not only because Warner wouldn't be willing to represent all of them but also because not all of those artists would want to be absorbed by such giant’s demands. This had spurred other record companies to hurry to get down to work, embracing Maverick like a Don Juan, trying to be the conqueror with the most candid attitude.

Then there was Davis. Dominos Records was a small company, but it had gained a very good reputation thanks to its selectness and, of course, for being the ones who’d discovered Miss Indigo. But Davis was also agitated; I had noticed it the day before, no matter how much he’d tried to pretend he wasn’t. He knew that if the numbers continued to rise and if today's concert was a success, the tour would be an investment that Dominos Records, by itself, probably couldn't afford. Davis had the same frame of mind as a father who strives to appear ready to see his son emancipate, but who will cry as soon as he closes the door.

I had no intention of leaving Davis. Without him, we wouldn't be here. But right now this was the least of my worries—after all, the final decision was still mine. So, if there was no other choice, I’d let myself be loved by all of them and their juicy offers in the same way a courtesan would. I was quite good at that.

Fabi had left after dawn despite my pleas not to. He’d said that I should sleep (he should, too) and that I needed some time to be alone (he needed it, too). I hadn't seen myself capable of falling asleep, but the whole barrage of emotions had finally made me surrender like a baby.

It was the high-pitched, irritating sound of the phone that woke me up. I answered reluctantly, still half-asleep, but I sat up immediately when I heard his hoarse voice.

“Did I wake you?” Oliver asked.

“No, no. Well, yeah, actually, yes.”

“It's five o'clock in the afternoon over there!” He sounded amused.

I checked the clock on the nightstand: it was true and outside it had already begun to get dark. I fell back into bed with a pitiful moan.

“I was here worried, thinking that maybe I was bothering you, and it turns out you were sleeping.”

“Don't judge me; I had a busy night.”

There was an abrupt silence, as though some fissure had opened in the air. Then I registered my words.

“Not that kind of busy night.”

The lively voices of Sophie and Sean that could be heard behind him were suddenly interrupted, probably because their father had gestured for them to be still or because Oliver had walked into another room.

“You’re free to do whatever you want, Elio." He lowered his voice. "I cannot ask you for a vow of chastity out of nowhere.”

I sat back up in bed again, so fast I felt dizzy.

“Who the hell do you think I am? I can survive one night without sex. As a matter of fact, it’s been four, already. If you think I'm going to sleep with any fool that comes my way, now, that you and I finally seem to be on the same page, even if I don't have the slightest idea of where all this will take us or if it will take us somewhere, you're very, _very_ wrong, Oliver Coleman. I didn't spend nine years of my tender youth daydreaming about being with you again, so that you could display this defeatist and resigned attitude now. This is not the man that turned my summer into an emotional upheaval. So I hope, for your own sake, that you're not calling me to tell me that you're not coming because I assure you that then I'll hate you very much.”

“Will you hate me more than you hated me during those nine years of your tender youth in which you daydreamed of being with me again?” He was trying not to laugh.

“Much more—a hatred so deep it'll end up giving me an ulcer.”

“You getting sick it’s the last thing I'd want. But to be rigorous to the truth: that was a _long_ time ago.”

“What can I do, I'm a very obstinate man.”

“True. And now, if you'll allow me, _Elio Perlman_, I was just calling to inform you that we'll be taking the train in forty-five minutes.”

“You don't know how happy you're making me,” I said, in a much more affable tone.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“I will send someone to pick you up and take you to the venue.”

“It's not necessary; we can take a taxi.”

“Oh, please, let me pamper you. At least while I can.”

I joined Victoria, Jameela and Carson at the bar an hour later. All three of them had their bottles of water lined up on the table. Today was concert day, so alcohol was totally forbidden. The atmosphere was gloomy, it almost seemed like we were about to attend a funeral. None of them spoke, but their body language said it all. They sat rigidly, in positions that clearly were uncomfortable for them, while they bit their fingernails or cuticle or bounced up and down first one knee and then the other until they realized what they were doing and crossed their legs to somehow appease those involuntary jitters.

“It's just another gig,” I told them.

But the three of them looked at me blankly. They knew I didn't believe what I just said. Which was true. Deep down, their attitude moved me because it showed how much all of this meant to them. It wasn't just a job that put food on the table and paid their rents—they were great musicians, but their image was not intrinsically linked to Miss Indigo, so if things started to go wrong tomorrow, I was more than convinced that any other band would welcome their huge talent.

All this reminded me of San Diego, somehow. That weekend had also been decisive for us, and we had managed to get away with it. Surely, today would be no different.

It mustn't be.

But the waiting was always the worst part. Usually, during the tour, interviews were arranged with the local press, making the day go by with hardly any time to think about anything, and when the performance finally started, there was no other desire than to play and let ourselves be absorbed by the fans' devotion. However, Burton had wanted today's contact with the journalist to take place at the end of the concert, to keep them waiting and meet them at the moment of maximum euphoria. It was a good strategy and made clear that Burton was confident that the concert was going to be a success; but that left us without much to do during the previous hours.

Later, back in my room, I kept looking at the clock, but the red digits didn't seem to want to cooperate. Oliver and the kids would be here in half an hour—if they hadn't missed the train, of course. What if they'd missed the train? When Oliver had called, I had the feeling that they were still in his apartment. What if they'd run into a traffic jam? How far was Oliver's apartment from the train station? They couldn't have missed the train otherwise Oliver would’ve called me. But what if he hadn't called me so I wouldn't get upset and let that affect me tonight?

Thank God someone knocked on the door. It was Fabi.

“Burton told me to come get you because he was sure that you'd be happier to see my face than his.”

“That man is starting to know me very well.”

Fabi followed me into the room and sat next to me on the bed. We didn't say anything for several minutes until he grabbed my hand so I would stop scratching my neck.

“It's just another gig, Elio.”

“Don't use this tactic on me; it doesn't work.”

“Well, you'll have to settle for it because I can't use any of the other tactics that I know work.”

Fabi had always known how to make me laugh.

“What makes you so nervous?” He asked.

“Do you want a list?”

He looked at his watch. “Do you think you can sum it up in ten minutes?”

I could try.

“Everything,” I replied.

“Okay… short but not very precise.”

I got up.

“It's all this crisis with the label. These last few weeks it seemed all so far away that I hadn't really thought about it until now. Who knows if tomorrow we'll have someone eager to promote a tour that hasn't been planned yet? What if the album doesn't work live and tomorrow it’s all over the newspapers? Who will buy those tickets? The press could massacre us if we don't live up to expectations because the only important thing for them is to have something to sell. You know how it is, when pushing you to stardom brings them benefits they don't hesitate to take you by the hand. But the more famous you get, the more susceptible to criticism you are, and there are many willing to write things such as: _Miss Indigo, what could’ve been and wasn’t_. This concert has to be _perfect_ and I don't know if I'm ready to do my best because I know I'm not going to stop thinking about you, there, listening to all these songs for the very first time without knowing what you think of them. It’s too personal for me, and it makes me so nervous, Fabi, you can't even imagine. And then there's Oliver…_ this_ is who I am now, what if he realizes that this is all too much for him and the kids and that he can't deal with all this chaos and attention? What if—”

Fabi stood up and held my face with both hands.

“_Écoute-moi bien_. Stop behaving like a neurotic squirrel, will you? Oliver will have no choice but to deal with this if this is what he wants, and I don't have the slightest doubt that you've written the best album you could’ve written because I know you, Elio—unless you call me horrible things in those songs, which I very much doubt, you have nothing to worry about. And no label in their right mind will pass up the opportunity to sign Miss Indigo. So take your jacket right now, you have a concert to give, that you and I know will be sublime because you're a brilliant musician and composer, who’s being worshipped by millions of people, some of whom have been queuing in the cold since this morning just to ensure a good spot to see you and _you _only.”

I let my head fall on his chest. “Thank you…”

“Wow, that was easy… What convinced you?”

“You calling me a neurotic squirrel. I know I'm losing my mind…”

The same van that had taken us to the Fnac on Monday was now waiting to drive us to _La Cigale_. It was already night, but the clouds had a pale glow, visible above the lampposts and the Christmas lights, announcing that it could snow again at any time.

It was a twenty minutes’ drive but for me it might as well had been an hour or more. When we arrived, though, all my doubts dissipated and turned into unguarded elation. There were people everywhere; the queue ran along the sidewalk in both directions, and disappeared around the corner. Fans crowded at the entrance, eager to get inside, while security guards checked their bags and backpacks. I imagined them counting the seconds before starting a sprint as soon as they were given the go-ahead and their tickets were torn. I'd done that myself so many times in the past. That allowed a balm of excitement spread through my veins. I looked at Victoria, Jameela and Carson, who were smiling openly, with their noses stuck to the tinted windows of the car.

Those who weren’t worried about finding a spot in the front row were waiting for us at the back door. Their infectious exaltation accompanied us to the dressing room like the smell of an expensive perfume. My parents, and Marzia and her husband, were already there, almost as excited and nervous as the fans waiting outside. After greeting us and wishing us luck, Burton took them to the box reserved for them. Fabi stayed to help us, it was as though he’d never left, and that made me equally happy and sad.

It was incredible how much I had longed for all of this turmoil that made the dressing room turn into something similar to a battlefield. There were suitcases, bags, clothes and shoes everywhere, along with combs, hair dryers, hairspray, hairpins, hair ties and all kinds of make-up palettes. We ran back and forth nervously, bumping into each other but examining our looks at the same time.

_No, don't wear that, it makes your ass look weird._

_Nobody's gonna see my ass on stage._

_Well, just in case._

Sometimes we even exchanged clothes; it wouldn’t be the first time I'd stood in front of the audience in one of Jameela's jackets or one of Victoria's flowery hippy tunics. Even Carson let himself be taken care of by the girls who loved to fix his long, wild hair.

I checked in the mirror the glitter that shone on my cheekbones, and had an unexpected sense of relief. I felt myself again. When I got on the plane in New York, I had hoped that this new stage for Miss Indigo would also mean a restart for me on a personal level. Now, I couldn't wait to walk through that imaginary door and leave everything else behind.

Burton came in again and barely had time to warn us before Sophie entered the dressing room like a projectile. First, she ran to me, but it didn't take her long to stir up everybody. Sean and Oliver were behind her, both smiling as though they just walked into the Louvre to see _La Gioconda_ for the first time. Oliver greeted everyone for the second time this week before stopping in front of Fabi.

“Mr America,” Fabi said lightly, offering his hand.

Oliver chuckled and returned the gesture. “It's good to see you again.” He was honest, and Fabi responded in the same way.

This was as far as they’d go. They weren't going to hug or pretend they missed each other, but it was better than nothing, and everyone watching them knew it—everyone but Sean, who ignored the exchange between the two most important men in my life as he watched the mess around him with his eyes wide open. Then his attention came to rest on the dark blue Fender Stratocaster on the couch. He gasped and approached it tentatively, just like you treat a stray cat you don't want to scare, asking, _Is it…?_ and, _Can I?_ Of course he could. He took it very carefully but didn’t dare touch a single string.

“And who is this handsome young man?” Jameela asked.

Sean put the guitar back on the couch with the same care with which he had held it, and presented himself as a huge fan very politely. Oliver signalled him with his head and Sean turned to me.

“Oh, yes… thank you so much for inviting us, Elio.” His cheeks turned that pink tone that I was already used to see on him.

“You're more than welcome. I'm so glad you're here.”

Before we knew it, Jameela and Victoria had disappeared with Sophie, and Fabi offered to show Sean the stage views from behind the scenes. The last test by the sound engineers could be heard from here.

“You didn't have to tell him I invited you,” I told Oliver when we were left alone along with Carson who sat on the couch with his drumsticks and his Practice Pad. _Act like I'm not here_, he said.

“Are you kidding me? His eyes almost popped out of his head when I gave him the envelope, but it made him even more thrilled to know that it was a gift from you.”

“That's very flattering.”

“I'm sure you're used to it.”

“I doubt I'll ever get used to it.”

There was a special spark in Oliver's eyes, which seemed to have become bluer, and his face glowed with warmth that reminded me of B's sunsets. He took a quick look at Carson, who had closed his eyes and was shaking his head to the rhythm of the drumsticks’ sound.

“Maybe you'd understand if you looked at yourself the way others look at you." He lowered his voice, then: “You look incredible.” And as though he had realized that Carson, despite the distraction, was neither blind nor deaf, he added, “More discreet than I expected, though.”

He looked me up and down; I was wearing plain black pants and t-shirt. I pointed with my finger behind him, towards the coat rack by the door, where a shiny brocade jacket hung. Oliver started laughing.

“I feel much better now.”

“Speaking of which, I'm not responsible for what might happen to your kids tonight. I trust Fabi with all my heart, but not the other two. Don't rule out Sophie getting kidnapped.”

“I feel sorry for them, then,” he joked. “Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. All I want right now is to get out there and play.”

Fabi and Sean came back, and Sophie walked in right after. Oliver didn't have time to hold the, _Oh my God!_ that shot out of his mouth. Victoria and Jameela had turned the beloved grandparents' princess project into a mini version of Cindy Lauper. Sophie was overjoyed with the crazy clothes she was wearing, of course, and the two women smiled, pleased with the work they’d done. Jameela then pointed to one of the chairs; they still had to do her hair and makeup.

“You should let her get on the plane back to New England dressed like that,” I told Oliver. He looked at me with a petrified expression, even though he couldn't stop laughing.

Meanwhile, Sean watched closely as his sister's cheeks were painted with a lot of glitter. More was less in this case, apparently. At one point I made a gesture to Victoria that she quickly caught (one of the many advantages of spending so many hours together); she looked at Sean, who was smiling at his sister, totally entranced.

“Would you like to put on some too?” Victoria asked him.

Sean's smile disappeared as though it had never been there, and his face flushed with the panic and shame of those who believe they’ve been caught doing something wrong. He turned quickly to look at his dad, probably hoping he hadn't noticed, but Oliver had been fully aware of his son's reaction. Oliver looked at me and then at Victoria, who was still standing there, showing him the small jar full of glitter. Then, to everyone's surprise, Oliver took the jar from Victoria’s hand and asked how did one put on that stuff. Fabi joined him straightaway and, after a more than persuasive look from Jameela, so did Carson. Sean watched the scene as though he were struggling between feeling daunted and fascinated. When Oliver finished, he offered the jar to Sean. He hesitated at first, but then smiled widely again, took it and let Victoria do a better job with him than his father had done with himself. Sophie also asked me if she could do something to my make-up, which I unreservedly accepted, letting her add, with extraordinary attention and precision, some star-shaped sequins under my eyes.

“Now it looks perfect!” I said.

She was so proud.

We all laughed and chatted enthusiastically, letting time go by nonchalantly as though it had always been like this, and certainly it could always be like this.

I wished it could always be like this.

Burton showed up shortly after. _10 minutes,_ he said, pointing at his watch. The nerves that had previously disappeared returned like a flood inside my chest. Oliver let Burton take the kids with him first, and then turned to me, but maybe because of Fabi's presence, he just placed a hand on my arm, a slight caress, and said, _No matter what, I know it’ll be unforgettable_. Then he left the dressing room.

“Fabi,” I said before he could even think of following Oliver. I took the ear monitors’ receiver and shook it in the air. He’d always helped me with all this equipment before we went out on stage in the past. Fabi grabbed the receiver and stood behind me to attach it to my pants, while I adjusted the earphones. Then he took the jacket and helped me put it on. Something told me this was going to be the last time we'd do something like this. Fabi held my face firmly, as he’d done in the hotel, in his eyes there was sadness but also a sense of thrill. He didn't say anything, he just kissed me on the cheek and left.

Love and fear are contradictory emotions, but it was the best way to describe what I was feeling as I walked down the corridor. All sound became muffled, including our own footsteps, and time seemed to slow down. I tried to concentrate on the distant deep rumble of the impatient audience that sang and clapped to the ambient music that made their wait more bearable. The anxiety was mixed with an adrenaline rush that raised my heart rate, making me feel its beat in my head, my mind in my chest and my stomach in my throat.

Burton was now waiting next to Davis on the side of the stage. I didn't dare peep out to take a look, not even a little. I let Victoria, Jameela and Carson stand in front of me. We looked at each other, but there were no smiles of encouragement, just concentration. I closed my eyes and tried to focus only on my breathing. I had the feeling that the air wasn't reaching my lungs.

The music suddenly stopped and the lights went out. The screaming that followed was deafening. Davis squeezed my shoulder and then stepped aside. Victoria was the first to come out, and we followed her while the audience roared despite not seeing what was happening on stage. We took our places—me at the piano as we were going to start with a brief instrumental intro. I waited for the four clicks of Carson's drumsticks and then _La Cigale_ was filled with music and colour.

I’d been asked countless times what it felt like to perform for so many people, but it was simply impossible to explain with words because it was much more than a feeling, it was like a state of the soul that changed you inside and out. It literally elevated us, like the high from drugs. Only here the effect was provoked by a torrent of endorphins that took over our bodies and minds, and that made us lose ourselves, both physically and mentally, in the show.

I was unable to stop smiling and laughing as I looked at them, all those fans who had done so much to be able to be here, living this experience with us, and that fed on all this energy that they sent us back with selfless kindness. It was a mutual exchange of emotions. And while there was no doubt who was in charge of the show, we let them know that none of this would be possible without their love. We allowed them to feel, touch, smell and taste everything that we felt, touched, smelled and tasted.

The best way to understand all this was to compare it to a roller coaster: a force of feelings that propelled us forward with no chance of return, and that filled us with a rush of satisfaction and melancholy as we advanced toward a cathartic ending that we longed for but also feared to reach with the same overwhelming intensity.

And when the lights of reality came on again, it was a sense of gratification that made my whole body tremble. It was like leaning over a cliff’s edge, it tickled your stomach but at the same time you couldn’t help but take a look and be fascinated by the greatness of it all. It was incredibly satisfying. Especially when I watched their faces in this moment of extreme vulnerability, when neither the power of music nor the colourful lights hid us from each other. This was the moment when I understood that all the sweat and passion we had put into it had been worth it.

But like all good things, it always felt like it was over too fast. It was like one of those dreams that, when you wake up, the only thing you want to do is to go back to resume where you left it.

I was the last one to leave the stage. I tried to touch the hands of all of those reaching over the barriers, even though I knew it was simply impossible. I threw kisses and all sorts of thanks at them while they, who also refused to leave yet, kept cheering and screaming under the rain of confetti that was still floating in the air.

Victoria, Jameela and Carson were waiting for me in the corridor. The four of us merged into a group embrace unable to contain the emotional impact of what had just happened. Davis and Burton were there, too. Burton was smiling, and I had the feeling that it was the first time I’d seen him do that.

The journalists received us in the room that had been set for the after-party. The flashes flickered like lightning in search of the best picture, and they asked questions, many questions, that awaited an answer to complete the reviews that would appear in next day's publications.

Sophie was the first to come to greet me as soon as the journalists put away their tape recorders and focused on the alcohol and food that had been distributed around the tables. Her tall ponytail was untidy and she looked truly exhausted but delighted with what she’d seen. Then my parents approached us, proud and oozing happiness, and to see them this happy couldn’t help but make me happy, too.

I moved around the room, shaking hands, grateful for all the signs of affection, from the most enthusiastic to the most restrained—Wagner and Dashev’s reserved attitude made it clear that this would probably be the last time we’d see each other in a situation like this. Davis, for his part, was determined to look cheerful, and he really was, but an unusual longing that was beginning to tarnish his joy was evident. I asked him to talk to me, but he refused.

“It's not the time, this is your night. You're gonna be big, Elio, you're gonna be big.”

It was difficult to concentrate on everything that was going on, and all those who came to congratulate me, when my eyes didn’t stop looking for them. Oliver and Fabi. I spotted Oliver and Sean next to one of the tables. My mother and Marzia were with them, having a lively conversation with Sean who was gesturing avidly while Oliver, holding a bottle of beer, listened affectionately. At one point, as though he had suddenly realized that something was missing, Oliver looked around the room until his eyes rested on Sophie, who was glued to my hand. Our glances met; the smile that lit his face was very different from others—and I was absolutely certain that I had all of them memorized. It was a smile that reflected the warmth of something intimate and had an energy that reached out to touch you. And I didn't want anything but him to touch me in every way possible.

Marzia hugged me when I joined them, repeating, _C'était formidable_. And Sean, with a nerve far removed from the shyness he’d shown so far, asked me if he could give me a hug, too. _Of course! But I stink_. He didn't care at all. I was the only one who could hear what he said to my ear.

Sometimes I wondered if I could feel luckier than I already was. After all, I had achieved a dream that many, no matter how hard they tried, would never even touch. But then I realized that there were still things, little things, that made me feel as though I still had a lot to understand and discover.

When Oliver took me in his arms, I knew this was all I needed. It felt good. It felt like home.

Then I saw him, Fabi, he was at the back with Victoria, Jameela and my father (I had already seen Carson displaying his seduction tactics with one of the journalists), but Fabi wasn't paying the slightest attention to them. He was looking at me.

Sean, still driven by the post-concert’s adrenaline, started to tell me everything he’d liked about the show, about the songs he'd been looking forward to hearing the most, about the changes we’d made to some of them and how much fun he’d had with the instrumental improvisation (which wasn't really an improvisation). He also told me that he had _loved_ the last song (a new one that we had decided to play here for the first time)._ Will you include it in the next album? _He asked. It was impossible not to smile at his unguarded enthusiasm. However, there seemed to be a limit to the amount of revelry that a six-year-old could take. Sophie leaned against her father's thigh, making a superhuman effort to keep her eyes open.

“I'm afraid the party is over for us,” Oliver said, warmly caressing Sophie's head.

“Poor thing, she didn’t stop dancing for a second,” my mother added.

Sean turned to his father to complain but not in time to avoid a yawn that infected us all, and made us burst out laughing.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“At the same hotel as last time.”

“That's a long way off, I'll take you to mine.”

Oliver looked at the two kids, then at all the people gathered there, having fun, and finally at me.

“Elio, you don't have to—”

“Shut up, Oliver. Just give me a moment.”

He didn’t have a chance to keep making excuses as I went over to Fabi. Victoria and Jameela stepped aside, dragging my dad with them without bothering to be subtle. I was glad that neither of them belonged to the group of Pretenders. Fabi smiled, but I could already notice the melancholy in his gaze. In fact, the glitter he’d put on to cheer Sean up had spread down his cheeks, and his eyes were red and glassy. I was sure I was going to cry even before we exchanged a few words. Fabi started shaking his head, as though to ask me not to.

“What did you think?” I asked, almost muttering the question. “No, no. Don’t tell me.”

“Okay, I won't. Well, just one thing: I'm glad you didn't insult me in any of the songs.”

“How could I do that?”

We hugged. We were both trembling.

“It was brilliant, Elio. _So_ good.” It was obvious that he was doing the impossible to contain the tears. I didn’t bother.

“Thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything. I love you so much, Fabi.”

“I love you, too… but let's not turn this into a farewell, please…”

I didn't want to turn this into a farewell, either, but I couldn't overlook the feeling that this moment marked a new start for us.

“Someone’s exhausted.” Fabi said, looking over my shoulder when we pulled apart.

Oliver had taken Sophie in his arms; she seemed to be losing the battle against sleep. I smiled stupidly, I guess, because when I looked back at him, Fabi’s brown eyes shone brighter than before.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked.

“No,” I said without hesitation.

We laughed.

“That makes me feel so much better,” he said.

“And are you sure?”

“No, either.”

“All is good, then.”

He accompanied me to where Oliver was waiting. Marzia and my mother had already said goodbye to them. When Fabi wished them good night, Sean told him he had a great time with him, and Sophie used her last remaining strength to ask him to come visit them in New England again. Then Fabi turned to Oliver.

“It was good to see you again… Oliver.”

At first it seemed like Oliver was trying to avoid it, but his lips finally quivered into a smile.

“Same here.”

I wondered what had happened during the concert because it was apparent that there were more things implicit in this exchange between the four of them than could be guessed by what was actually said.

Before joining Victoria and Jameela again, Fabi asked me to call him when I returned to New York, which of course I’d do as soon as I landed.

Sophie huddled in my lap as we sat in the car, whereas Sean leaned on his father's shoulder despite doing everything possible to avoid succumbing to the tiredness that seemed to want to take over his body. I looked at Oliver over Sophie's head; he looked at me too. Suddenly, I wondered who this man sitting here, smiling at me like this, was. But then I thought that maybe this had always been him and the only thing that had changed was that I had never seen him so buoyant.

We didn't speak in the elevator, nor did we in the hallway as I guided them to my room with Sophie still in my arms. The same room Oliver had abandoned a few days ago, leaving me completely broken. We got in after some unforeseen circumstances that saw me running back down to reception because I had forgotten my keys. I felt warmth I hadn't felt for the past six days.

Oliver left the travel bag he’d brought with a clean change of clothes for the three of them in a corner, while Sean went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and try to remove the glitter that had ended up all over his face. Sophie, however, shied away from all her dad's attempts to take her—arms firmly tied around my neck. The three of us ended up in the bathroom, me holding Sophie as Oliver did what he could to remove her and his make-up. Sean was already wearing his pyjamas and was standing there, not knowing what to do. I told him they could have the bed. _And what about you and dad? _He asked. _Don't worry about it_. Sean didn't ask any more questions; he was very tired even though he tried in vain to pretend otherwise.

While Oliver put Sophie to bed I took a nice, calming shower. When I came out the two kids had already passed out, entangled under the thick quilt. Oliver was sitting next to the French window; he had placed some cushions and blankets on the floor.

“Not as comfortable as a bed but…” he said.

I sat next to him.

“Aren't you cold?” He asked.

I only wore a bathrobe. I shook my head. I wasn't cold, of course not, but I accepted the blanket he offered me anyway.

We looked at each other for a while without saying anything, but it wasn't one of those uncomfortable silences in which you keep thinking, _What are we going to do now?_ Although, it was a good damn question, because while I was sure about where I wanted things to go from here, it wasn't a one-sided decision that could be taken lightly, like when you decide between cereal or toast on a boring morning. There were a lot of things to keep in mind, and it made me very nervous to weigh on them because that meant that the possibilities of building something serious between us were very real and that, inevitably, and despite the desire that caused a tingling all over my body, made me feel the usual fear of the unknown. Not that we were strangers, but this was not the summer of '83 when we had loved each other without thinking too much about the consequences. At least, I hadn't. We’d both known that our adventure was going to be short-lived even though we’d been determined to ignore it. _This_, however_,_ implied much more. It implied a reciprocal commitment, a purpose and loyalty—the combination of two worlds, his and mine, that moved into two completely opposite directions.

Oliver got closer; I was so absorbed by all these thoughts that the move surprised me. Then he placed a hand on my cheek and smiled.

“You still have glitter on your face,” he said.

“I guess I'm too tired to worry about it.”

He stroked me with his thumb, drawing a line under my eye, and then got up and entered the bathroom. When he came out, he brought a towel and a bowl of soapy water. I chuckled but I didn’t object when he sat next to me again and grabbed my chin carefully. _Let me see_, he said softly. I closed my eyes while he rubbed the towel over my face. I could feel his breathing on my skin. Could there be anything more intimate than this? I wanted to kiss him right here, sitting on the floor of my room in a nest of blankets.

“Much better now,” he said, after a while.

“I’m assuming you don't like it.”

“It's fun to watch, but I prefer what's underneath. No artifice. Just you.”

I opened my eyes; I could only see his, illuminated by the light that slipped through the windows.

“Thanks…” I whispered, because I didn't really know what else to say.

“No. Thank you.”

“Why?”

“For inviting us. I know Sean and Sophie will never forget this night.”

“And what about you? Are you going to forget this night, _Americano_?”

Oliver smiled. “You're still such a goose.”

“I'm not denying it. Now, give me an answer.”

Silence.

Oliver's smile vanished, but there was no caginess in his gaze, it was more like thoughtful serenity, like when you meditate something, and Oliver seemed to be debating, choosing between my eyes and my lips, which were half-open, more than ready, inviting him to do whatever he wanted with them and with me.

“Don't you dare ask me if you can kiss me,” I warned him.

Oliver looked over his shoulder, toward the bed where the kids slept peacefully, then took my face again with determination and smiled before his mouth met mine. I didn't remember if we’d ever kissed in such a sincere, pure, human way. For once, there was no rush, as though for a moment we both really thought we had all the life we had left to explore each and every one of the little imperfect curves that shaped our lips and that you only noticed when you paid attention to them. And I wanted to pay attention to every part of his body as I’d done the summer we met, but this time without the urge of that inexperienced teenage boy. I could get lost in this feeling, the touch of his soft tongue caressing mine. I wanted his tongue everywhere, running over each of my teeth, leaving long wet traces of saliva on my neck and chest, or whirling teasingly around the head of my cock.

I shouldn't be thinking these things with his kids sleeping only a few feet away from us, but I couldn't help it. This is what you do to me, Oliver; you stir all my primal instincts.

“Behave,” he said, laughing against my lips as though he could sense the growing need within me.

“I didn't do anything,” I replied, but I reached out one hand in search of the waistband of his trousers. “Yet.”

Sophie said something then, which made us jump apart as though we had received an electric shock. But the girl was still asleep. We laughed, covering our mouths with our hands to try not to make too much noise, like two young lovers making out on the porch, hoping not to get caught by their parents.

“Yes, sorry, she sometimes talks in her sleep,” he said, and this time his tone wasn't so cheerful. “And this is my life now.”

I knew what he was going to do; I knew he was going to give me a warning speech. This is me, Elio, and this is what I have to offer. I'm not Barbie's friend, the one you can buy to play on its own. I'm the Ken Divorced doll that comes with the complete kit: children and full-time steady employment, and whose small print makes it pretty clear,_ Not sold separately_. I blamed Carson for making me think of this stupid analogy, but it was as good as any other.

“I know,” I said.

“I'm not sure you really know, Elio.”

“But I know,” I repeated.

“What do you know?”

“I know I want this. I know I wanted it from the first day you shook my hand and said, _Nice to meet you_. Actually, I think you didn’t even say anything; you only lifted your head with that arrogance that I loved and hated so much. That first time you looked me straight in the eye, Oliver… I knew it from that very moment.”

“But I'm no longer that twenty-four-year-old boy without any obligations.”

“And I'm not that seventeen-year-old boy with his head in the clouds. Well, I'm not that seventeen-year-old, period.”

This made him laugh.

“I actually like that," he said. “It makes everything about you interesting and unexpected.”

“Then I can give you that.”

“Only when you're not busy touring the world, with many other tempting and affordable options coming your way, while I devote myself to my boring life as a university professor, with two kids who visit me at the only times that I am free and who require my full attention.”

“You sell yourself pretty badly.”

“I don't want to scare you, Elio, but I want to make sure you know what you're getting into.”

I got as close to him as our bodies allowed.

“No, I don't know what I'm getting myself into, but I'm willing to find out,” I said. “It may not work. Moreover, it probably won't work, but I want to try, Oliver. I don't want to keep tempting fate waiting for a much more suitable opportunity because, what makes us think that we will really be offered a new one? I may be conceited, but not to that extent. I will be there for as long as I can, for you and for them,” I bent down and kissed his neck, his chin and the tip of his nose. “Let me show you…”

Oliver put his arms around me, but for a moment he said nothing. His silence had no intention of hurting me, but it did disturb me.

“I'm scared,” he said with astonishing honesty.

“About what?”

“Everything. I don't want to hide, Elio. I don't want to _hide you_. I’d be an idiot if I did. But I’d lie if I said that I’m not afraid, thinking about how those around me will react: my peers, my family, Charlotte… the kids. I don't want to lie to Sean and Sophie, not them. I want them to see it as something normal, I want them to understand that _it_ _is_ normal. But I know they'll be confused because that's how they're supposed to feel. _God_, how will Sean take it? I think his reaction is the one that worries me the most.”

“We'll take it easy, there's no need to rush things.”

“After fifteen years, we can say for sure that we're not two people who like to rush things.”

“Speak for yourself, I would’ve married you right there in Bergamo.”

Oliver laughed and pecked me on the lips.

“You're crazy,” he said before kissing me again, this time slowly. “So. Fucking. Crazy.” And then another kiss, and one more after that. “And I'm even crazier for letting your craziness into my life.”

Perhaps he was right and we both were raving mad—we had to be to continue yearning for each other in this way after such a long time, and after an affair that had lasted much less than the time we had been apart. But maybe true love was like this? A flame, a thirst, a wilt of the vital signs that blinds and clouds you, but that, at the same time, fills you with a breath that you are unable to find elsewhere. And I didn't want to be anywhere but here, with him, with them.

“What if we end up hating each other?” He asked, half joking but also with a pinch of uneasiness.

He made me think about it, but I had no doubts. I would rather hate you than live tied to the memory you always leave behind. And I can assure you, with thorough certainty, that the possibilities of failure are less frightening right now than seeing you disappear from my life again with the sour feeling of knowing that we’ve wasted another opportunity. If we fail, at least we’ll fail faithfully and not fearfully, doing something we believed in, and no one will be able to say we didn't try. I want to try. I need to try. Let us try, Oliver, because if not now, when?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the full concert [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277781/chapters/51001003) and read a review of it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277781/chapters/51001345) ♥


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are again… I can't believe this is really the end of this story *sniffs* Thanks to all of you who have accompanied these characters on this journey; your support has been vital to fuel this whole writing and creative process! I didn't expect all the love that the original content would get (Miss Indigo, Fabi, Sean, Sophie…) I have no words.
> 
> I want to make a special mention to [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder)—seriously, without your help I couldn't have done this; thank you so much for your work, your patience and your encouragement, you are the best and I love working with you.

When he’d told me that the villa had burned down I had imagined various scenarios, mainly because coming from Elio it was difficult to tell how much of a real disaster truly happened and how much was merely and purely embellished by him. I never doubted the truth of what he had told me, of course not, I’d seen the irreparable pain in his eyes, but I hadn’t been prepared to find something like this. I’d thought that, perhaps, the fire had fed on the sturdy wooden furniture, and that the smoke had covered everything else with a thick layer of black soot. But unfortunately, and for once in his life, Elio hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said that there was nothing left. The walls were still standing, but behind them and the empty windows, there was nothing but burnt rubble and a bright blue sky that contrasted with the desolated image of a place that had once welcomed so much life in its past.

I walked along the gravel that had led me here sixteen years ago with the sole purpose of spending a few relaxing weeks in Italy. How far away was that time already, but how recent was still its memory? I was careful not to stumble over the brick pallets and cement bags everywhere. Today the machinery stood silent and the site was empty of workers, free during the weekend, so all that was heard was the sound of the leaves swaying in the gentle and warm breeze of early August. I closed my eyes and focused on the cicadas’ familiar song.

I was home at last.

It had been a little over seven months since I’d decided to get on that train to Paris. I was still surprised at the naivety with which I had made that decision; I had only looked for a signed album and to greet an old friend. But Elio had never been simply an _old_ friend, and I had hugely miscalculated the impact of seeing him again. I had firmly believed that I was over him, that the fieriness that woke up inside me every time I was close to him was just an echo from another time. So many things had happened and changed since we’d seen each other in New York. I had told myself many times that I could settle for his friendship and, for a while, I had really believed it.

Sophie had been born a few months after my trip to New York, and nothing could’ve matched the happiness that filled our home again with an anarchic frenzy, which only those who are parents can comprehend. I’d talked to Elio sometimes; we called each other regularly, to catch up, until our lives had gradually drifted apart. It wasn't premeditated or sudden, it just happened. Anyhow, I was content because I had two amazing children, and I was spellbound by Elio’s continued achievements as a musician.

I still remember the first time I saw him on TV. I was having drinks with my colleagues while we debated how to improve our teaching practice—a discussion that normally (and after several beers) always ended in gossip of all kinds. I had already disconnected from that dull chatter when I’d suddenly found his eyes looking directly at me from the other side of the screen. The coloured lights made the glitter on his cheekbones glow while he sang to the camera as though he’d been doing it all his life. I’d almost dropped my beer, and to avoid the embarrassing spectacle, I placed it on the bar with such force that the bottle broke between my fingers. That incident had left a small scar on the palm of my hand. It was almost imperceptible, but of course Elio noticed it during one of those days when he escaped his stardom to visit me. He caressed it with his index finger, looking at it for a long time, until he put my hand to his mouth and kissed it delicately. But he didn’t ask, and I didn’t say anything about it either.

After that first encounter, I had the feeling of seeing and hearing him everywhere, all the time—on television, on the radio, in newspapers, in magazines. Eventually, we received a package with a brief note written in his scrawl, accompanying Miss Indigo’s debut album. _I hope you like it, Elio._ That's all it said. I read the note many, _too_ many times, until I realized something I had overlooked at first: he had put a comma before his name. It was an insignificant detail that only those picky about grammar would’ve noticed. But I wondered, in fact I wondered more than a sane person would admit aloud, if Elio had simply been lazy in his writing (and coming from him that wouldn't have surprised me at all) or if he’d really been trying to tell me something.

I listened to the album almost as much as I read the note that I kept locked in a drawer next to a copy of one of the first Rolling Stone issues that had dedicated a profile to him. Some hide porn and I hid a music magazine beneath my manuscripts. What I did when I put my hand inside my pants while staring at those photographs of him, looking like I’d never seen him before, was not much different from what other men did looking at Playboy.

A few weeks later an envelope with invitations to one of his concerts had arrived. On that occasion he hadn’t included a note, and I had to admit that I’d felt a little disappointed but also relieved.

I spent days thinking about how to thank him without revealing how stupidly happy it had made me to hear from him. So I sent him the children's book that I had written and that he himself had inspired. His following phone call was a pleasant surprise, and hearing his voice a joy that I was unable to rationalize.

And so we went to San Diego. Charlotte was not only excited about the idea of going to a music festival, she was also eager to see Miss Indigo perform. She knew Elio’s parents, who had invited us years ago to spend some pleasant days with them in the Italian villa, though she had never met him. But Charlotte had discovered his music on her own—it seemed that Elio was becoming the object of desire for both teenage boys and girls as well as adult men and women. Not Charlotte, of course, she was just curious to meet Annella and Samuel's son, whom she adored.

The idea of seeing Elio again combined with Charlotte's excitement hadn’t increased my wish to go to San Diego, though, and I spent the days before the trip entertaining all kinds of excuses, seized by an atrocious fear, induced by an endless number of questions that I didn't even dare formulate in my head. But Charlotte didn't buy any of it and we ended up flying to San Diego anyway.

I wondered now if Charlotte would’ve made the same decision if she had known everything that was going to happen afterwards. That weekend marked the beginning of the end of our marriage. It hurt to think about all that now. But as contradictory as it might seem, I was eternally grateful to Charlotte for her bravery in taking a step that I wouldn’t even have dared to consider, and for the admirable serenity with which she had faced the whole process. It had been hard to confess before her with honesty after so many years of lies, but it had also been liberating, and now I felt my chest swell with gratitude.

And so, today, I stood in front of the Villa's main entrance; one of the two panels of the imposing carved wooden door was still there. Elio had told me that they had to put security cameras all over the place because, in spite of the state of the house, there were people sneaking in to try to steal everything that wasn’t nailed down.

I tilted my head slightly when I heard him approach, not bothering to go unnoticed. He almost dragged his espadrilles through the gravel. He loved the attention, even when he did it unconsciously. He had that kind of energy that attracted and absorbed you, and all you could do was to let it pull you in because resisting was simply impossible. And I knew perfectly well what I was talking about because that thing he called stubbornness was a pertinence that I had tried to avoid that summer of '83 and had failed miserably.

He put his arms around my waist and leaned his head against my back. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to say anything. Sometimes, I preferred that he didn't say anything because it was in those moments, when we simply looked each other in the eyes, that I felt that he was letting me gaze into his soul. That was Elio. And this was precisely what had attracted me so much to him, his evident and constant internal struggle that made him so vulnerable, so open, so pure—a candour too demanding for those around him, and I hadn't been as prepared for it as I had thought.

The kids had returned to the States the day after New Year. The farewell, as always, had been emotional and sad. I wasn't going to see them again for six months, and our phone calls weren’t going to be enough to make up for their absence. The apartment, which seemed to get smaller when they were visiting, became cold and terribly quiet after they had left.

Elio and I did our best to call each other every day. I had believed that after all the magic we’d lived in Paris the return to our routines would make everything strange and awkward between us, like on first dates, when you try hard to make it all fake perfect, as though all we had shared in the past no longer counted and we were starting from scratch again. And in a way we were. Sometimes I noticed the silences that made us laugh uncomfortably—we were too conscious that this was a unique opportunity, and we didn’t want to put a foot in the wrong place. It was endearing somehow, but it wasn't what I wanted for us. Not now. And I knew it wasn't what Elio wanted either. But I also knew that he was trying to assimilate too many things at the same time, not only in his personal life but professionally as well.

Maverick Records had been bought by Warner Music, which meant the breaking and rewriting of many contracts—and Warner Music had been very clear since the beginning: they wanted Miss Indigo. The problem was that Miss Indigo would only sign with Warner Music if they agreed to meet a number of requirements, including a joint agreement with Dominos Records. Warner Music at first rejected the proposal but Elio was categorical about it: there would be no deal without Joe Davis. I loved that part of his personality, that insolent courage to tell one of the most powerful record companies on the music scene to stick their contract where the sun never shines. Miss Indigo was in a privileged position to demand, and Elio (along with Burton's help, who now solely worked for him) was willing to pressure them to the last consequences. Warner Music ended up accepting.

Elio showed up in London three weeks after Paris to settle all the paperwork, and I was hopelessly hysterical at the thought of having him with me again. I behaved like a teenager, I was fully aware of it, but my agitation went far beyond the basic expectations of a new encounter; it had to do with future prospects, which made me wonder if we’d really be able to make this work.

I’d suggested going out to a nice restaurant on the phone, but he had refused. _I'm only going to be here for five days and I have no intention of sharing you with anyone_, he’d said. I was okay with that. So, after work, I prepared a copious dinner for both of us. I felt my heart skip a beat when I heard the doorbell and even more so when I opened the door. He looked… different. Exhausted and taciturn, I would’ve even sworn he was thinner, something I wondered if it could be physically possible. He let himself fall against me, resting his head on my shoulder, and I held him because I had the feeling that he would collapse right there if I didn’t. _It's done_, he said in a drained voice. He had flown from place to place for weeks, attending meeting after meeting, reading and rejecting contract after contract, until they had finally reached an agreement that satisfied all parties.

He barely ate dinner.

“I'm really sorry… I'm so tired,” he said. “I can go to a hotel if this is an inconvenience for you, I know that tomorrow you have to work and—”

I cut him off, placing a hand on his, the one holding his clean fork.

“Go to bed. I've put fresh sheets on it.”

He gathered his last remaining strength to force a cheeky smile.

“Do you ever think about anything else?” I joked.

“Do you?”

“Sometimes…”

I walked him to the bedroom, and when I came back after cleaning up and putting in the fridge all the food that I had spent hours cooking for nothing, he was already unconscious.

The next morning, I left the house before he woke up—thought I'd call him at noon to see how he was doing, but then decided to let him rest. When I returned in the afternoon, the whole apartment smelled of food and the kitchen looked as though the mother of all cyclones had blown through.

“Sorry about the mess, but I didn't know where you keep your things," he said, but he was smiling and looked much better than the night before.

“I’ve taught them to hide from strangers, and I see they put up a fight.”

He had flour on his hair, face and clothes.

“Mafalda always said, _Non puoi avere la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca. _You can't have a barrel full of wine and a drunken wife.”

“And that means…”

“That you can't expect to have a spectacular dinner and a pristine kitchen at the same time, Oliver. Now come over here and give me the kiss we didn't have yesterday.”

I obeyed with great pleasure, especially because I hadn't noticed until he had mentioned it that we had barely touched each other the day before. It no longer mattered if he left my jumper covered in flour; his lips and feeling him so close again was all I needed after a long day's work.

I was aware that Elio had many talents, but cooking caught me completely by surprise, and I had to admit that the _casonsei_ (he made me repeat the pronunciation until he was satisfied) were delicious. It was to be expected knowing that Mafalda had been his teacher. _A very demanding woman in the kitchen_, he told me. Later, on the couch, I waited for him to show me something he had bought. When he came back from the bedroom, he was carrying a bottle of Grand Marnier_. _We laughed, remembering that pleasant afternoon in Paris that had ended up becoming a disaster as the night had progressed.

I poured two shots, and we talked about all those things you talk about when you don't feel forced to establish a formal conversation. Elio sat with one leg bent, his knee pressed against my hip, while he placed the other over my thighs. He barely left me room to move but who cared as long as he kept kissing my neck when he couldn't think of any more stupid things to say, and making me shiver every single time he did.

After the second shot of that not so harmless (and supposed) digestive, he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, _Fuck me, Elio_. I stared at him, only to make sure he wasn't making fun of me or too drunk already. But his eyes burned with a desire that had been kept away from us for too long. And now that I knew that he remembered everything as much as I did, I had no doubt that his note from years ago hadn’t been casual—a slip, perhaps, not a grammatical one, though, but one that escapes from one's own subconscious, the same that sometimes makes us look over the shoulder at the reasoning we think we have under control.

We kissed. Not as voraciously as the eagerness of his voice had suggested, but as we’d kissed in the hotel after the concert, savouring every breath we shared as if we had all the time in the world.

I had wondered what it would be like to meet like this again after the failure of our first night in Paris. I knew that I had hurt his ego with my words (it was Elio, after all) and feared that it would affect him, making him feel insecure—but I figured I still had to learn not to underestimate him. Elio loved to be in control, and his self-confidence was intoxicating. I had already witnessed it in action on the other occasions we had met, but especially on stage. The sexuality he radiated so effortlessly with every word and every gesture was incredible, while all those eyes watched him with avid fervour. Who could blame them?

But now he was all mine.

He straddled my lap as we kissed and undressed each other with painful patience until all our clothes were scattered on the floor. It was like we were mimicking the meeting at my hotel. Elio smiled mischievously, as though that image had crossed his mind, too. I thought I'd suggest we go to bed, we'd be much more comfortable there, but I could already imagine him saying, _Oh_, _you're such a romantic, Oliver_, and then he'd turn down the idea without even saying anything. So I saved my words and let him do what he wanted. I ran my hands down his back before grabbing his ass firmly while concentrating on him and him alone—his mouth on my throat, and his teeth grazing my skin as I took a deep breath, smelling him. We were completely naked and shuddering with desire. Elio's lips searched for mine again, and I opened my mouth without resisting while he massaged my cock, slicking it with some lube that he must have hidden beneath the cushions earlier. Long, gentle strokes that only ceased when he lowered himself slowly down to meet me. Then a moment of stillness, as though we both needed to collect ourselves in this reality, as though everything else no longer mattered anymore.

It took him a minute to find his rhythm, a few slow slides to start with, languid and absolutely delightful. Elio's hands slid up my shoulders until they rested on both sides of my face. _Look at me, Oliver_, he whispered. I knew why he was doing this, I knew that this was his way of telling me that I should forget the last few times, that this was no longer Paris or New York, this was something else, and it really felt like something else.

We made love just like this, on the couch, pressed together face-to-face, the friction of our bodies deliciously unbearable, moving slowly and then not so slowly. Elio kept repeating, _Look at me, just look at me_, as though I could do anything else. He was so perfect like this, the most handsome man I’d ever met.

I groaned his name, or maybe it was mine, I was no longer sure of anything, while I felt the pleasure building deep inside me. _Don't hold back_, he said. And I didn't. I couldn't, falling inexorably over the edge. I pressed my mouth against his neck, may have even sunk my teeth into his skin, as I cried out, bliss mixed with the wonderful disbelief that this was finally real.

Only a few seconds later, Elio's fingers dug hard into my hair, and he moaned, unexpectedly restrained, as he also came, hot semen smearing all over my chest. I held him in place as I relaxed against him and until, eventually, we were both breathing normal again.

The next three days passed as we had spent our last hours together in Bergamo, drunk on ourselves, and ignoring that we'd have to say goodbye again soon while we got used to an ephemeral routine. I worked in the mornings and when I got home he was always there, waiting for me with a new culinary offer. He had learned quickly where everything was; he was still a total disaster, though. During dinner, he told me what he’d been doing during the day, the places he’d visited, and who he had met, and I bored him with the educational bureaucracy I had to deal with every day. Then we made love until sleep overwhelmed us both.

I let him fuck me the night before he left. Since Italy I had not let any other man touch me like this; and how different it was now. His inexperience that summer had been charming in a way, but now his openness and impulsivity in bed were both exciting and intimidating. I couldn't stop thinking about all those people who had opened their legs for him. And these thoughts always led me to Fabi. Elio was going to New York in a few hours, I knew they’d meet—it was not that I distrusted any of them, Fabi was really a good guy, and the night of the concert in Paris had knocked down some of the walls that still stood between us. I had felt the restrained aching in Fabi's eyes almost as though it had been my own. I remembered wanting to tell him something and not finding the words. Fabi had looked at me and had nodded in silence as he danced with Sophie, probably hoping that no one else would notice that he was crying. Elio and Fabi’s relationship wasn’t like any other I’d ever seen before, and their friendship something very difficult to compete with. Nor could I ignore that our past five days together had been nothing more than a mirage, and that as soon as Elio would get on the plane, and with a tour about to be scheduled for the rest of the year, the chances of seeing him were reduced to a minimum. _We'll make it work_, _I promise_, he whispered as he moved inside me.

A few days later I got a call from Charlotte. Sean was eleven, but I was always surprised how observant he was. No one had asked him to, but he had somehow kept the whole meeting with Elio in London and Paris our little secret, had even convinced Sophie to stay silent about it. But Sophie was Sophie, and one day she’d spilled everything at a family gathering. _We're together_, I told Charlotte directly. That hadn't even been her question, but I didn't want to waste time with tangents that would inevitably take us to this point anyway.

“More or less,” I added.

“What does _more or less_ mean?”

“That we're together as much as his life of non-stop traveling lets us be.”

Charlotte had said nothing for a few long seconds, and when she spoke again she did in a low voice.

“You know your parents will go crazy when they find out.”

“Oh, fuck them! Find out? They already know, they've known all their fucking lives, but they've preferred to control what they considered _Inappropriate Behaviour _with discipline instead of offering me some affection, which is the only thing a child asks for. And I don't want that for Sean and Sophie, Charlotte. I'm not going to hide. I'm tired of hiding and pretending. Why can you start a new relationship and everyone accepts it because, after all, it's your life, but I have to offer a thesis to justify why I’m with a man I’ve loved for over a decade and a half? It's not fair!”

Charlotte took her time before answering, as I tried to calm down.

“I'm doing all I can here, Oliver,” she said, sounding extraordinarily subdued. "But I can't control everything they're exposed to, and you know what they’ll have to deal with regarding my family and yours.”

“I know.”

“It'll be a shock for them, no matter what.”

“I know.”

“And Sean…”

“_I know_…”

“I'm worried, Oliver, I'm very worried.”

“I’m worried, too. I've been thinking a lot about it, about how to tell them, but—”

“I know you'll do well.”

Her trust caught me completely by surprise.

Then I’d started crying.

I was overwhelmed. Elio's absence, the kids’ absence, and everything that was to come, because no matter how hard I tried to normalize it, I wasn't so sure I was as prepared for it as I wanted to believe.

On February 2nd I turned forty, and the day before I had received a package from Elio: an old copy of Oscar Wilde's_ The Picture of Dorian Gray_. Elio loved to joke about this, about our age difference, even though seven years wasn't such a big deal. But there was a terrifying feeling that hit you at the edge of the fourth decade. It was as though you suddenly realised that you had reached a point where you can no longer advance, and all that awaits you from there on is a steep fall. Maybe seven years was not that much, but when I thought about it, Elio was still very young, and his life was wild and exhilarating. What could I offer to a person who had everything and could have anyone?

_We'll find a way_, Elio told me every time we spoke on the phone. But after almost a month without seeing each other, I began to question the feasible durability of all this. He told me the news about the upcoming tour, and all about his apartment’s facelift. Apparently his neighbour, a woman named Agatha Robinson, had taken the liberty of buying him a bed and a new toaster—for whatever reason, Elio seemed more amused about the toaster than anything else. _I have to investigate her late husband_, he said in a secretive tone. Elio always had exciting things to tell, while I could only offer him the tedious story of my daily life over and over again. He'd ask if I'd seen this or that film, and I'd tell him that I hardly had time. _You need to get out more, Oliver_. He was right. I didn’t understand why I had decided to seclude myself now, when I had always known how to enjoy everything London provided before.

So I started going out more. I went to the movies and the theatre, and back to the bars and clubs I had frequented when I had been a newly divorced man, eager to make up for lost time. One day, fighting between feeling shocked or horrified, I ran into one of my colleagues in one of those haunts. Wesley had only been working at the university for a couple of months—forty-five years old, he told me when I decided it was better not to make a fool of myself and pretend I hadn't seen him when it was obvious that the two of us had recognized each other, and we sat down together for a drink.

We met a few more times after that. He was attractive, although his was not a conventional handsomeness—and it was nice to spend time with him, and to talk to him. We both shared a profession, peers and interests, and we lived in the same city. Everything was as easy as it was dangerous. It could be said that we ended becoming friends, but the sexual tension was noticeable every time we were alone. Wesley even tried a more physical approach one night we went to the movies. We kissed, but I immediately stopped him. _I'm with someone_. He seemed surprised, almost as surprised as I was when I realized I hadn't mentioned it to him before. I was getting so used to not having Elio here, and not hearing from him for days because the tour was about to start and he was too busy with all those logistics, that sometimes I wondered if there really was a relationship between us or not.

And that’s why I couldn't help but think about it, think about what it’d be like to be with someone like Wesley, someone I knew for sure that I could wake up with every morning, someone who was looking for a stable life as much as I was, and had enough time to consider visiting a flea market or even discussing such mundane things as laundry.

But all it took was a call from Elio; listening to his sweet, daring voice, and that sagacious tongue of his, for me to forget everything and everyone. I missed him so much that it hurt in my guts.

The tour started in early May. First they’d travel around the UK and then the rest of Europe. Elio arrived a week early. I thought I had his image burned in my brain, but when he appeared at the arrivals gate, it was an unreal feeling—even in the middle of a crowd it was impossible not to see him. He hurried, maybe I too had run to meet him, and he kissed me right there. I was about to pull away, more out of instinct than want, but I didn't. Let them look, who cares anymore?

It was a short kiss, actually, but for me it had been like sprinting through an obstacle course, knocking all of them down on my way, but with no intention of stopping regardless.

We made the most of the time we had, doing everything we could, even taking a simple walk in the park or flipping a coin to see who would get to do the dishes. _Tomorrow I'll buy you that damn dishwasher_. He hated to lose. I also showed him the places where I used to go, and one afternoon we ran into Wesley. He seemed very shocked (and judging by the furtive looks around us, he wasn’t the only one.). _You kept pretty quiet about it! _He told me when Elio left us alone to go to the bathroom.

“Have you slept with him?” Elio asked, once we were at home while on the couch, having one last drink. There was not an ounce of spite or worry in his voice.

“I thought about it,” I said, not even bothering to force the sarcasm into my voice.

“And why didn't you?”

“Because I'm hopelessly in love with you, you idiot.”

Elio smiled, so happy and so proud. Then he left his cup on the coffee table and slid off the couch, kneeling on the carpet, and moving with feline elegance until he placed himself between my legs. _Say it again_, he asked me as he played with my belt and unzipped my pants. And I did, I repeated it over and over again as he took me in his mouth.

I went to see him as much as I could once the tour had started, and he did the same every time he had a few days off. I always thought that it would be Elio who would get tired of this first. Fabi had travelled with him day after day during Miss Indigo's break-through. Fabi had always been there when Elio needed him. Elio was so emotionally volatile, and a career like his wasn't a bed of roses. I was starting to realize that now. The pressure of the media was taking a toll on him more than he'd admit, and on bad days I had to settle for being on the other side of the phone to comfort him. But it warmed my heart to see how determined he was to make this work. Maybe there was some unpredictability in him (and I was a bit scared of it) but also an obstinacy that managed to put a smile on my face every single time.

The kids landed in mid-June, and I couldn't be happier. Sean had already turned twelve, and I could swear he was an inch taller than the last time I saw him. Sophie was still as lively as ever, not even an eight-hour flight could quench her energy, and she spent the whole way home updating me on all the incredible news, especially now that Paul, her mother's boyfriend, had apparently surprised them with a Beagle named Arthur.

“Arthur?”

“Sophie chose it,” Sean said.

“The king of the house needs a king's name,” she declared.

None of them questioned Elio's presence at any moment. His entrances and exits were so random that they only saw him as a friend who came to visit us from time to time. They were delighted every time he was home, of course, and for someone who said he didn't like kids, he knew very well how to deal with them and make them feel special. He and Sean (who still looked at Elio with that halo of admiration and awe) talked about music and instruments long and hard—they played together sometimes, too. And Elio accompanied Sophie to buy fabrics and crafts for her designs and let her teach him how to cut them perfectly. She made him a bracelet that he wore all the time. Meanwhile, I tried to find a way to tell them that Elio wasn't just a friend, but in the end all I did was putting it off until the _right time_.

One night, after making sure the kids were asleep as we always did, we went into my bedroom. I was sitting on the bed with my legs spread open, leaving room for Elio to stand between them. We were undressing each other, slowly, teasing, while Elio leaned over to kiss me on the lips each time he plucked a button on my shirt. All of a sudden we heard a gasp—we pulled apart hastily, shocked, just in time to see Sean close the door quickly.

I panicked. Elio panicked, too. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. I put on my bathrobe and ran out looking for Sean. In their bedroom was only Sophie, sleeping like a log. I looked in the bathroom, but he wasn't there either. I finally found him in the living room, sitting on the couch, rigid as a stone. He looked at his hands as he played with his fingers, as though he didn't know what else to do.

“I'm sorry…” he said. "I couldn't sleep and wanted to ask you if I could make myself a mug of hot milk.”

I wanted the floor to open under my feet and swallow me right there. It was evident that he was not simply dumbfounded by what he’d seen but he was waiting for me to reprimand him severely for meddling. My father had always been very strict with good manners, and I had seen him more than once scolding Sean if he did something that my father considered inappropriate. I tried to imagine how he would have acted in a situation like this and felt sick.

“No, Sean, it's me who's sorry," I said, although I didn't move from the door. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how. I was afraid…”

Sean lifted his head, somewhat stunned and also surprised.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

He looked down again and said nothing.

“Do you want that mug of milk? I can prepare it for you and—”

He shook his head.

_Okay…_

This was much more difficult than I had anticipated.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Silence again.

I didn't want to leave him there alone, not like this. I'd go into the kitchen and make him a mug of hot milk, even if he didn't care to drink it. That would give us both some space. But as soon as I moved away from the doorframe, he called me. _Dad_. His voice was almost a plea. He looked so puzzled and mortified. I sat next to him.

“It's okay, Sean. It's all right. It's all right. It's not your fault, okay? I should’ve been honest with you and Sophie. But—” I sighed. There was no point in going round and round a subject that was already more than exposed. “Elio and I are together… as a couple. I like men, Sean; I’ve liked them for as long as I can remember, even if I was confused and unsure at first.”

Sean stared at me, he didn't speak but I could tell he was looking for something to say, and when he finally did, the innocence of his question overwhelmed me.

“You never loved mom then?”

“No, no, no… it has nothing to do with that. Of course, I loved your mom, and I still do. But it’s a different kind of love. She's the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had, and she's given me the best gifts anyone could give me… you and Sophie.”

I drowned in my own words. I didn't want to cry in front of Sean and make it even more awkward for him, but I also didn't want to fall back into the automatism of hiding my feelings just when I was finally being open with him. Sean noticed, and I noticed that he, too, was doing his best to hold back his tears. I couldn't even imagine what was going through his head right now.

“You can ask me anything you want, Sean, you know you can talk to me about anything you want. And if you don't want to continue this conversation, we'll leave it here—you don’t have to worry. I just want you to be okay.”

He lowered his eyes back onto his fingers and nodded. He stayed that way for a while, pondering. I left him to it, but I didn't move away. I didn't dare to. Then, without turning to look at me, he asked, “Did it happen in Italy?”

“Yeah… it started that summer. We liked each other and… we fell in love.”

“You must’ve missed him a lot.”

I had never underestimated Sean's intelligence, not even Sophie's, who was still a child—Sean was too, but the eloquence and contemplation of his questions were leaving me speechless.

“Yes…” I said in a thin voice.

“Does Grandpa know?”

“No, he doesn’t know about Elio.”

“And about you?”

I felt an icy stabbing in my chest. I took a deep breath. I had to be careful because I knew there was much more going on with that question than what concerned me.

“I'm sure he does, but he's always preferred to pretend it wasn’t there. I wish they had been more accepting—and I don't think they'd like to know about me right now. But I don't care anymore, Sean. I'm happy… and deep down I can't blame them for not understanding it either. Your grandparents grew up in a different time, with different rules. But things have changed. I'm not saying it's easy, but at least it's better.”

I saw Sean's lower lip start to tremble.

“Sean…”

He huddled against my chest and began to cry. “I don't want to go back, Dad. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you.”

I was sure I'd never forget the sound of those tears.

I held him as tight as I could, and tried to calm him down without betraying him with false promises. It broke my heart to see him like this, and it hurt even more to think that there wasn't much I could do about it.

I made him that mug of hot milk in the end, and stayed with him on the couch until mental exhaustion, which became physical, made him fall into a deep sleep.

Elio was sitting on a chair in the corner of the bedroom, fully dressed as though he was about to leave. He stood up as soon as he saw me walk through the door.

“How did it go?”

I shook my head. “I don't know… it was… it wasn't as I expected.”

I told him everything. Elio also seemed perplexed.

“And what do you plan to do?”

“I don't know. The visitation rights we’ve set up have been a verbal agreement between Charlotte and myself. I can't get involved in a custody battle, Elio, because I’m on the losing end. And none of this is Charlotte's fault. I chose the easy way out, I escaped from there and left her alone, raising two small kids and dealing with two families who come in and rule that house as if it were their own. If they find out that I have a relationship with a man… _God_, I can't let them take them away from me, Elio, I can't let them take them away from me.”

I was running out of air. I sat on the bed because if I didn't, I'd end up crashing on my knees. Elio sat next to me and took me in his arms.

“It’s okay, it’s okay," he said. “We'll find a way, we'll talk to all the lawyers we need to, and we'll consult every possibility, down to the smallest detail, before we do anything.”

He probably would’ve done it without realizing it, but it meant so much to me that he was talking about _us_, as though this was a problem that he also needed to solve.

“But if you need me to go,” he continued. "If you need us to keep our distance for a while until all this calms down, I will, okay? Just tell me what you need, Oliver.”

I had no doubt.

“I need you here, with me.”

Two days later, I found a moment to tell Sophie, who took it as only Sophie took things.

“Does that mean you and Elio hold hands and kiss like Mom and Paul do?”

“Yes… we hold hands and kiss each other like Mom and Paul do.”

“And isn't it weird to kiss a guy?”

I couldn't help but laugh.

“No, it's not _weird_ to kiss a guy. There are also girls who kiss other girls. Jameela and Victoria, remember them?”

“Yes! I like them.”

“They also love each other in that special way.”

She glued her eyes somewhere on the shelf as she thought conscientiously.

“So is Elio going to be around a lot?”

“Yeah, Elio's gonna be around whenever he can.”

“Okay… Great! Can we go to the park today?”

And that was it.

Sean seemed calmer, but his attitude towards Elio had changed slightly—he was quieter and more cautious. And even though Elio didn't mention it out loud, I knew this was making him paranoid. But he didn't stop trying his best with both of them. We went to see him perform a few times, although I didn't want the kids to get too used to this eccentric lifestyle. Sometimes Sean let his guard down, but then, as though something clicked inside him, he’d step back again. Other times I’d catch him watching some Miss Indigo videos on TV—with the tour underway and the third single reaching number one, it was on heavy rotation, but as soon as Sean realized that I was prowling around, he changed channels.

Then came the weeks of absence. Miss Indigo travelled to Northern Europe and we didn't see Elio for almost a month. Sophie asking about him wasn't strange, but the day Sean did, he caught me totally off guard. A tremendous summer storm had been steadily fortifying itself outside, so we were huddled together in the apartment, me in the kitchen, preparing something for dinner, and the kids wandering around. Sean appeared in the doorway looking bored, and started talking about merely anecdotal things, until he finally asked, _When is Elio coming back?_

“I don't know, I think they still have a week before they start touring the South of Europe,” I said as casual as I could. He had sat on one of the stools and I had my back to him, focused on cutting some carrots.

He waited a few prudent seconds before saying, “Is it okay if we call him?”

I couldn’t contain the smile that made its way onto my lips, grateful that Sean couldn’t see my face.

Elio was so happy to speak to him.

A few days later Elio called to change plans. _What if the three of you come to Italy next week? We'll be closer, and the weather is great. I’m sure the kids will love it_.

And here we were now, contemplating what was left of the place where it all started.

“It's hard to believe, isn't it?” Elio said.

I felt some terrible nostalgia, thinking of what had happened here and all that had been lost. I thought I’d understood Elio's pain when he’d told me about it, but now I realized that I hadn't even been close.

He kissed me on the nape of my neck, and then stood beside me before he took my hand.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

We walked around the house and headed for the huge back garden that looked more neglected than I could ever had imagined now that Anchise's expert hands were no longer taking care of it. Nevertheless, there was a small mowed area where we’d eat later. As we went down the stone stairs, I started laughing. I knew what he wanted to show me, the sound of the water was unmistakable.

“Not everything was lost, luckily…" He approached the fountain, smiling broadly and dipped one hand into the water. “I asked the builders to clean it and open the water passage. I thought maybe the kids would like to swim.”

“Only the kids?” His smile went even wider. “Fuck… it's still just as cold.”

“Oh, come on. You never had a problem with it.”

“I was young and brave.”

Elio kicked off his shoes, sat on the stone edge, and stuck his feet in. He was wearing short jeans, which reminded me of the ones he had worn during that summer—it wouldn't have surprised me if they were the same, in fact. I laughed at his attempt to maintain a stoic expression as the water reached his knees. Yeah, it was damn cold. I did the same and sat opposite him. It didn't take Elio long to stretch a leg and feel for my foot with his.

It really was _Heaven_.

I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy this, the tranquillity away from the bustling city, the sun warming my skin, and our carefree caresses.

“I needed this,” Elio said, almost moaning.

“Honestly, I don't know how you do it. Just driving to university every day consumes half my energy. And I only have to deal with two little persons fighting for my attention.”

Elio chuckled, and kicked my shin lightly.

“Okay. Sorry… three.”

“It can be exhausting, not gonna lie. The other day I had to ask to be reminded what city we were in at least twice, before we went on stage. But once out there… it's unbelievable. Besides, I get to know a lot of interesting people.” The tone of his voice changed deliberately.

“Oh, really?”

He hummed affirmatively, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. The sun of the last few days had already brought out the freckles that peppered his nose.

“Do I have a lot of competition?” I asked, playing along.

“Plenty.”

“And what do you suggest I do about it?”

He tilted his head forward again and opened his eyes, the harsh shadow thrown by his eyebrows barely letting me see them, but I knew perfectly well what was hidden beneath it. Sometimes I hated him because of this, because he just needed to look at me the way he was looking at me right now to turn me on. _Hostile looks_. He had thought that I was looking at him cruelly that summer. If you’d only known that all I’d been doing was trying to think about the unthinkable so as not to think about you and all the things I’d like to do to you, so I wouldn't get hard in front of everyone.

I jumped, surprised—I saw him move one leg, but I didn't have time to react before a splash of cold water soaked me completely. _Be good, Oliver,_ he said, with a sardonic smile. I thought I'd turn the tables, but he'd earned a much worse revenge. He noticed my intentions almost instantly and got up as fast as he could but I caught him only a few yards away. He tried to escape while the two of us laughed uncontrollably, but he could do nothing to prevent me from dragging him back to the fountain, almost carrying him on my shoulders.

“No, no, no, no, no! Please! I'll make it up to you! I promise—”

I let him fall into the water.

“Is it cold?” I asked when he emerged, struggling to fill his lungs with air. He started to yell all sorts of insults in Italian, or at least that's what it sounded like; my Italian was still deficient.

The repetitive and vehement sound of a horn interrupted him. They had arrived. Their voices and laughter were heard soon after and, in seconds, Sophie appeared, trotting and exclaiming, _Daddy! Elio! _Elio came out of the fountain and ran to meet her, and she, who seemed willing to throw herself into his arms, stopped in her tracks when she realized that he was dripping wet, and began to flee in the opposite direction, screaming, while Elio chased her all over the garden.

I couldn't stop smiling like a complete idiot.

Sean, Samuel and Annella were carrying the chairs and the camping table. With them was also Pierre, the architect who had planned the villa’s restoration—Annella’s _Special Friend_. Elio was unable to hide how much his presence infuriated him, but Samuel didn’t seem to care at all. _I'm sure he also has some special woman or… man_, I’d said, and Elio had given me the evil eye. Sometimes I really had to take care of three kids.

I helped them set the table, and we had a nice meal outdoors, as though nothing had changed, as though this was something we did every summer. If I didn't look towards the ruined house, I could even imagine Mafalda appearing there to offer us some more juice or wine or a nice ice cream.

After lunch, I watched Sean sit at the stone table on which Elio used to work on his transcriptions or play his guitar. Elio approached him, bringing with him a long case. From where we sat, I couldn't hear them talk. Sean was silent at first, even after almost two weeks of vacation in Italy, he was still struggling in Elio's presence. I wasn't sure if it was just the tension of a child that had seen how the bubble he’d been living in had burst, or if it was shyness, or if he simply saw himself reflected in Elio so much that he was afraid to admit it to himself. As Sean listened attentively, the tension seemed to slip away from his body little by little. Suddenly he smiled, looking into Elio’s eyes before Elio handed him the case. I couldn't see what it was, but the expression of astonishment on Sean's face said enough. He carefully opened the case, then put it aside and held in his hands what had been inside: Elio's indigo-blue electric guitar. I knew perfectly well how much that guitar meant to Elio, and Sean knew it, too. Sean hugged him and Elio finally relaxed, as well.

A moment later, while the others rested lying down, napping on the grass, and the kids played in the fountain, Elio invited me to follow him—he wanted to show me something else.

“I've seen that you've made up with my son…" I said in a light-hearted, almost mocking tone, but it was impossible to hide the emotion in my voice. “With some material bribery, though.”

“Well, everyone uses their own strategies. And you have to admit that it's hard to compete with a dog named Arthur. But I think it worked.” He flashed a smile that, just like my words, intended to be confident, but that undoubtedly reflected a tremendous relief.

We entered the old shed where Anchise used to keep all his things. The air was filled with dust, and impregnated with a suffocating smell of abandonment.

“Look,” he said, pulling aside an old, moth-eaten sheet. “These survived too.”

There, as if time hadn’t passed, and leaning one against the other, were the two bikes that somehow summed up that whole summer we’d spent together.

“I asked my dad to take them to the store to tune them up. Fancy a ride?” He asked in the same cheery tone that he had used in Paris.

I couldn't say no, and even before we made it through the narrow blue gate I was sure of where he was going to take me.

“I knew it,” I said as we got off the bikes and left them on one side of the trail.

“I’m that predictable?”

“Even Sophie can see through you. And it seems you're more romantic than you want to admit.”

He winked at me and without wasting a second, headed off towards the clear murmur of the water, abandoning his espadrilles along the way. I’d thought that the memory of what had happened here had sketched a fantasy landscape in my brain, but it was still as beautiful as I remembered it.

And the water was still as freezing.

Elio made fun of me, walking toward the centre of the pond as though it didn't affect him at all, just turning from time to time to check that I hadn't gone anywhere. Then he stopped suddenly, causing me to bump into his back. He turned and looked at me with the same clear intensity of that day all those years ago. He ran his hands up my chest and fisted my shirt. Then he kissed me. I put my arms around his waist and pressed him against me as hard as the laws of physics allowed. But he stepped back immediately and started to walk away.

“Be good, Oliver," he said again as he made his way to the opposite shore where the vegetation was thicker and the trees offered a pleasant shade.

He took off his shirt and the bathing suit he had changed into, and then threw them onto the grass before coming out of the water fully naked. I laughed, shaking my head. _Be good_, you say. How can I be good when you provoke all these wild feelings inside of me? But then I think that, maybe, being good is this, it's seeing you taking off your clothes with that boastfulness of yours, and coming to the enthralling conclusion, that isn’t a conclusion as such because I had already discovered it a long time ago, long before I even became aware of it: that I don't want to be anywhere else, and I don't mean here in B., neither in Paris, nor in London or New York. The place doesn’t matter, my dear Elio, as long as I’m with you.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [mypinkcactus](http://mypinkcactus.tumblr.com/)


End file.
